


Electric

by manspirations



Series: Stackson Week 2019 [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, American Cheerleading AU, Competition, Disney World, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Fake Dating, M/M, Male Flyers, Partners to Lovers, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-09 05:01:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18910078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manspirations/pseuds/manspirations
Summary: “Danny, Danny,” Stiles knocked on the table, as if the two sickening lovebirds weren’t waiting for the right time to speak. “Make him say yes.”Without a single haste, Danny blinked, offering them dual bewildered expressions, “To? We caught like a third of that.”Stiles couldn’t help the frustrated gape, even knowing he looked like a dying goldfish, “You were sitting right here.”“We don’t speak Stilinski.”And, yet Jackson understood him perfectly, a thought he filed for a later date. The three of them waited for his answer: Danny because he actually seemed curious, Jackson because he knew Stiles would be too embarrassed to spew it all again, and Ethan because he drank Stiles’s mortification like Gatorade.Stiles finally admitted on a huff, “I need a fake boyfriend for two days.”When Stiles' best friend slash hopeful-to-be-boyfriend, assumes he's dating the most aggravating human on their Cheerleading team, he has no choice but to play along. All's fair in love and jealousy, right?- Written for Stackson Week 2019, Day 3: Roommates/Fake Dating





	1. Thursday

**Author's Note:**

> A Breakdown of teams for anyone interested:  
>  **Beacon Hills Cyclones:** Stiles, Jackson, Danny, Ethan, Aiden, Lydia, Theo, Erica, Kira, Brett, Lori, Tracy, Greenberg etc.  
>  **East Lake Broncos:** Scott, Allison, Isaac, Derek, Laura, Boyd, Liam, Mason, Malia, Nolan, etc  
> Many of these characters never make an appearance save for a quick mention or reaction, but it might be helpful to know they exist lol
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Writing Playlist:** Since Cheerleading is often a sport passioned by music, every section is preceded by a song(s) that represents Stiles’ feelings or actions in that scene. To listen to the playlist: **[Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4SU7dWegXrDv1yPv7rCaan) | [Youtube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLj8s8Wq4iTerghtlG0k-mcaQyMgnMImTd)**
> 
> Hope you enjoy ;)

**_~~ Devil ~~_ **

_Shivers_. Physical shivers ripped a path down Stiles’ arm as his eyes roamed across the opening ceremony crowd. The amphitheater was nearly full now, technicolor uniforms offering light to the dull tan tarp. Standing amidst thirty teams, all he could do was inhale the boisterous chatter, letting the ebb and flow boil his inhibitions.

This was the year. The actual year.

This time, he’d finally cheer the hell up and do it. Come three days from now, he’d turn Scott’s over-enthused “buddy” into a softer-but-still-ecstatic “baby.” All thanks to Year 5, Phase 3 of his five-year Operation to woo Scott McCall.

He tracked the room again for the Broncos’ orange and white uniforms. Still nothing. He slumped, kicking the nearest person to him accidentally. _Where were they?_

When he couldn’t spot them, he whipped around, tracking the clusters of colors with intense focus again. In the past, Scott and the other Broncos were never late, but how could they be when they were led by their tyrannical sweetheart of a captain? He shuddered at the very thought of Allison Argent with her perfect midnight hair and flawless skin. He wouldn’t even trust his goldfish in her steely presence, if he had one, that was. Of course, his mistrust had nothing to do with Scott’s blinding crush on her.

Behind him, someone kicked his heel and Stiles swiveled, the smile on his face widening all on its own. It reduced in size the second he saw the culprit, “Ew, go somewhere else.”

Jackson, with a Powerade in one hand and a plate of nachos in the other, lowered himself into what had to be the only empty spot next to him.

“Waiting for your boyfriend, barf brain?”

“Jealous,” Stiles winked, stealing a nacho before Jackson pulled them safely to his chest. He could have stolen more if he tried, but unfortunately, Stiles wasn’t blessed with the metabolism to eat trash all day and still look like his parents chiseled him from marble.  Jackson sneered back at him, which Stiles ignored as a dust of orange crested the top steps.

 _Hello shivers._ Stiles  snapped his own mouth shut. Normally, Scott’s team seemed to float down, always with Allison in the front and the other raven haired girl next to her. This year though, they’d bumped Scott to the front, not like Stiles would complain one bit about that development. His bud--soon to be bae--bumbled along with the two girls, smiling while he cackled with the Tall One behind him. Stiles thought his name was Isaiah, or maybe Ezra--something biblical like that. None of it mattered with Scott standing right there, his hair no longer the shaggy mess it’d been last year. He absolutely fucked with the butch cut better, edges soft like they’d glide effortlessly through Stiles’ hands.

“How can you text at a time like this?” he  asked, nudging Lydia who was kneeled beside him, hair and makeup untarnished even after the two and half day drive. “Lyds, we’re finally here.” _He’s here_ , his thought corrected. He didn’t  say it loud, but her knowing look meant she understood all the same.  

She barely glanced away from her screen, just long enough to  peek at Scott’s squad settling diagonally from them. “We’ve been here three times already, the only face that matters is mine, and her hair is too straight.”

Beside her, Danny graced them with a little scoff, his only acknowledgment since they congregated for opening ceremonies. Stiles agreed with him. Allison’s hair always looked immaculate, but their squad survived on one rule and one alone: Never disagree with Lydia, and that included her and Allison’s on-again-currently-off-again friendship.

“Cheer Goddess doesn’t like haters, Lyds,” he responded, making sure to scoot several paces as he did, “And this isn’t about you. It’s about me, my year--the year of Stiles. We’re splitting for different colleges and I’ll probably never see him again.”

“You don’t see him now.” Her side-squint barely scratched his face, but he could still sense the unwarranted scrutiny she always gifted to her inner circle. “Why didn’t you brush your hair like I told you to?” If he could count on one thing, it was her need to micromanage every aspect of his life.

“He doesn’t care about shit like that,” Stiles threw back, smoothing it down with his hand anyway.

“Everyone cares about _‘shit’_ like that.”

 **“** Still looks like crap **,”** Jackson muttered, as if Stiles didn’t have enough to worry about. He wished they could banish him to cheer hell already, or at least the back row with everyone else they could barely tolerate on the team.

“Can somebody shut him up?” Stiles whined, turning first to Danny, Jackson’s one and only friend bless his beautiful soul.

“Freak.”

“Asscrack.”

“Virgin.”

Stiles’ mouth opened, ready to fire all insults he saved for Jackson’s particular brand of douchenozzle. Unfortunately, Lydia beat him to it with a intensifying swat to the guy, sharp-edged rings and all.

“Both of you,” she hissed, “You’re attracting attention.” Her head flicked forcibly towards where Scott slumped next to Allison’s side across the lawn. Facing in what could only be their direction, he’d cocked his head, frowning pitifully. Definitely not how he fantasized about their grand reunion. Stiles hid the color in his cheeks with a cough, forcing himself not to duck.

 _Play it cool,_ his thoughts kept warning him. _You can do this._

 _Go ahead and fuck it up like you always do,_ he knew Jackson was dying to add.

He settled for a simple one-handed wave, lips slipping open to an equally one-sided smile.

“Real smooth,” Jackson ruffled all progress he’d managed on his purposefully-tousled hair. Sometimes bullies were best defeated if you ignored them and Stiles had no qualms narrowing all his energy on Scott’s tattered muscle tank. The way his muscles made orange look delectable, bulging under what should’ve been loose cotton. Also, was that a tattoo around his biceps? _Shit_ , he was popping a woody at the mere sight of it. He shifted on his plot of grass, drawing his knees up for cover before anyone noticed.

“Nice reaction, Casanova.” _Too late._ Jackson leaned into his personal bubble, Dorito breath at an unnerving level and showing dramatic signs of increasing from there. At Stiles’ shove, he rasped fiery breath over his cheek as he sussurated, “Wanna bet he can spot it from here?”

Stiles gritted, _“Fuck off.”_ Then, using the same lips, calmer tone, he mouthed, “ _Hang soon?”_ to salvage an ounce of his and Scott’s fated reunion.

Scott took no time nodding back, even despite the Tall One leaning over to say something. After one more swift cut to Jackson, Scott shifted back to his friend.

“Looks like boyfriend wants the real thing instead.” More cheesy-powerade breath. The fact they’d made it to this point in their partnership—mutual antagonism, zero physical boundaries—could only mean he needed to re-evaluate his life choices.

“I’ll believe it when you find it...But... that was weird, right? He hates you.” Just what he needed, another person trying to hop on Jackson’s dick, let alone Scott. _His_ Scott. Who lived to torment the hell out of Jackson with him.

Of course, the moment he attempted to have a genuine conversation with Jackson, the dick faced the opposite direction entirely. “Whatever.”

Stiles didn’t need him, his constant negativity, and big mouth--he scooted closer to his number one. Of course, she gave him the look, forcing to scoot right back. Yeah, he really needed better friends.

* * *

**~~ Just Us | Vanish  ~~**

Ever since Stiles could remember, there had been five constants in his life—his dad, Scott, Lydia, Danny, and Jackson—the latter two more by association and proximity than free will.

He and Lydia met at the Beacon Hills Tumbling Club when they were six. For nearly a year, he could only describe life as one Gigantic Ballpit, a fat dose of fun in every jump. But as they said, everything good must come to an end. For him, it was the summer of 7, when Lydia forced him to play Doctor one ill-fated afternoon with a love-stricken Jackson and a sharp-witted Danny. His life went all bitter, no sweet faster than their Gymnastics coach could say ‘Aerial Cartwheel.’

It wasn’t until the summer of 10, when they met Sunshine Scott McCall at sleepaway camp  that Stiles finally found himself someone he could claim as a hundred percent his own.

During the school year, he made do ok. Being friends with Lydia (and friend-adjacent with Jackson/Danny) awarded him several privileges: sitting at their lunch table, going to their birthday  parties, hanging with their other grossly popular friends even when they had nothing in common. He endured the teasing and side commentary, knowing he’d have Scott at his side for four weeks come summer. The best four weeks. Meeting Scott was like trying something new from your favorite restaurant and trading those chewy pancakes for bacon waffles forever.

The analogy was a little far fetched but it worked. He loved Scott; he just hadn’t realized how much until he was thirteen at Lydia’s annual team sleepover, glancing around at all the couples cuddled in the basement and wondering if Scott finished the recent episode of their new favorite show. Since then, he’d given himself only one mission: Operation Marry-Scott-McCall, though he detoured briefly with Heather, then Caitlyn, and technically, a couple of drunken nights with their school’s part time starting QB-part time base, Theo. (Nights both of them preferred not to mention.)

Ok, there might have been several detours, but this year he’d righted the course, headed straight for Year 5 of his penultimate plan: admit your truest heart’s desires (and finally get some worth calling some). It was all about finding the right time in between practice and semi-finals, then hopefully finals. Plus all the team-building exercises Lydia tacked on in preparation to those three milestones.

“Stiles. Stiles. Hello!!” A shrill voice materialized right at the edge of his consciousness.

“Barf Brain.” There went another one, this one deeper but eighty more times annoying. “F this. I’m out.”

“Jackson! Get back here. Somebody wake him up.”

Water sloshed and his skin crawled, alerting him to wake and roll just before his pool chair was doused with water. “I’m up,” he blurted to half the squad, nearly all of them chuckling and pointing above him. Danny helped him stand around the time Lydia returned, dragging Jackson by the ear.

“Anyone not ready to practice sleeps in the lobby.”

Since he appreciated cushy hotel beds, he yanked his booty into formation. Everyone else flitted over at their leisure, filing either around or behind him.

“Danny, warm ups,” she snapped. Danny ordered them to jog around the hotel four times, which never bothered Stiles much.

After the rest of the team drifted over, practice officially began, meaning Stiles had zero time to think about the plan and too much time to not-complain about Jackson’s hands on his body.

Another bright Lydia Martin idea. Male flyers. Featuring your dude truly and his partner, the most hateful, ogreish Greek God in the history of male cheerleaders.

“Stiles!” Normally, he lived for Lydia Martin screaming his name, but in the middle of practice, next to their resort’s very public and crowded pool, he’d rather not. The team split ranks for her, gawking traitorously as Lydia stalked for them.

Jackson pushed off him like he hadn’t been the one to screw up, but no amount of space saved them  from her imminent wrath.

“I thought I told you two--”

“We did!” he exclaimed, looking to Jackson, who blatantly started talking to someone else. This wasn’t even the stunt they’d spent hours perfecting; he could do Toss Extensions in his sleep. Her lip poked out further, hands on her hips as she regarded them. A guy lurches forward once and suddenly he’s worse than the JVs they’re forced to bring as alternates. Flash embarrassment heated his core now that her disapproval thundered over them. How creative would her punishment for unpreparation get now? Last year, when Garrett showed up to semi-finals with a black eye, Lydia made him wash the entire bus for no reason at all.

Her mouth opened and Stiles held his breath, backhanding Jackson square in the chest until he heard his good-ole partner sigh dramatically.

“Ten. Now.” Did she mean...

Stiles groaned, “Lydsss...”

Her wry grimace dared him to continue that statement. Stiles was many things, a self preserver among them. Without a glance at each other, he and Jackson inched closer together, Stiles toeing in front of them as the team wrapped around them, ready for the show. A few of them looked too amused in Stiles’s opinion, as if all they needed was the free lobby popcorn to make this a true spectacle.

“Try not to fuck up this time,” he hissed now that he could feel the heat of Jackson behind him, his hands gripping the tank tugged over Stiles’s waist. By now, after two years of this, it was natural for Stiles to clutch his wrist back, ignoring the onslaught of everyone’s eyes on them.

“Bite me, bitch.” The insult slicked low enough that only Stiles could hear him, eliciting a slick rumble of disgust, but Jackson followed them with an audible countdown. By the time he reached one, they’d transformed all animosity for each other into their only commonality--making everyone else feel inferior.

The first one, effortless. One moment he was on the ground, both of them crouched for a quick pop, the next wind tunneled through his hair, the pool below him. Jackson’s arms locked below him as the night breeze whirled. Just to show off his strength, Jackson held him there, Stiles nearly counting to twenty before he’s lowered to the ground. They rattled off nine more in rapid succession, each as solid as the last. Bitches couldn’t touch him; Stiles pumped his hips in time with his fist, letting Jackson’s scoff inflate his ego even higher.

In Jackson’s speech, a scoff meant ‘we done did good.’

Lydia knew it too, even still she stopped pacing languidly in front of them, scrutinizing them  for a long moment. The team waited on a collective breath for her consensus.

“Fine. Positions,” she snapped, her grin barely concealed. Hell yeah, they were awesome.

They gathered an audience, pockets of other teams half jealous-half mesmerized by the routine Danny and Lydia choreographed. He’d just finished a watered down version of his last tumbling combo, a Round Off whip full back-handspring kick arabian that led into another roundoff back handspring double full when  someone stuck out at the crowd’s edge.

“Scott!” he ruined formation to launch himself across the grass. Scott opened his arms long before they made it less than a foot apart and when Stiles crashed into him, he sighed finally feeling one with the world. “Ahh, I missed you buddy.”

“Right back at cha. The ice queen’s forcing you to practice already?”

Lydia cleared her throat, “I can hear you, McCall.”

“Good. He’ll be back later,” Scott fired back, tugging Stiles away from the middle of practice. He could vaguely hear others breaking off too, complaining about special treatment and homoerotic friendships. They could all boil in a pot of stew for all he cared. Lydia actually let them go, not one attempt at protestation.

Like old times, they immediately fell into conversation, Scott told him about his new job and the motorcycle he bought last month. All the games he and Isaac finished. (Stiles knew the Tall One’s name started with an ‘I’.) He tampered down on the bloom of jealousy at the image of them lounging on Scott’s bed, pilfering through Miss McCall’s kitchen until only fruits and vegetables were left. They probably had epic snacks in Georgia, like quadruple stuffed oreos and caramel covered bacon.

“And Deaton said I could adopt the next stray. Isaac and Derek have a German Shepherd but I want something cuddlier.” Scott rattled off when they finally settled on his bed with an X-Large pepperoni pizza, three bags of chips, five candy bars, and a two Liter of Fanta Grape. Stiles fell back against the headboard, grinning at the awesomeness of the moment. No annoying captains, noisy friends, or cock-blocking rivals. Just him, his best friend/love of his life, and thousands of calories worth of perfect decisions. His foot bumped against Scott’s thigh and a tingle crawled through him, his heart palpitating when Scott beamed too, bumping him back. He wondered how it would feel to move closer, replace his foot with a hand, how Scott would react if he walked said hand upward, settled it right over his—the door burst open, “Ahh, isn’t this adorable.”

He flopped back with a groan, his eyes shifting as Jackson stormed in with Danny on his heels. Together, they both paused inside the threshold; Danny shot him a quick thumbs up before ducking into the door connected to his and Twin #1’s door.

Unfortunately, a certain someone didn’t get the memo because he lazed toward his own bed like Stiles wasn’t using the room as per earlier discussion. He and Scott peered at each other and Stiles tried to silently apologize for whatever rude filth Jackson was bound to say.

“They let you be roommates?” Scott inquired while Stiles glared pointedly at Jackson, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“It’s ok, Stiles. I wanted to tell you something too,” Scott’s hands played with the pizza box. He sucked in a breath. Could this be the moment? Jackson halted the quick rummage through his suitcase, his full attention on the two of them. He would shoot him a ‘get-the-fuck-out’ leer, but he’d been too focused on Scott, watching as his best friend inhaled once, twice, then, “I’m with Allison.”

The announcement jumbled together, so it took several seconds to piece them  together. When he did, he forced his pre-pasted smile not to wilt.

Scott.

Allison.

His best friend Scott and Allison. No matter how many times his brain declared it or in which order, the thought wouldn’t sink in.

“What?”

“Finally! I know. Isaac convinced me to ask her out and she said yes! And it’s been sooo perfect. She’s just so...” His eyes grew twice their size.

“Perfect, I get it...that’s great, bud,” his ears got that rushing pressure like he’d jumped in the deep end of the pool and took forever to break surface. They thought Allison was a perfectionist and a bossy. Stupid freaking Isaac, he knew he hated that guy.

“Barf Brain!”

Stiles jerked toward Jackson, still sitting on his side of the room behind Scott. He banned himself  from dropping any tea worthy expressions in front of Jackson, knowing the entire team could be reenacting his trauma by morning. Yet, Stiles couldn’t read Jackson’s face, pinched mouth, corrugating brow. “We’re hitting up the Springs. You in?”

Stiles actually thought about it, ultimately deciding to wave him away. He did catch his grimace as he slammed his suitcase and disappeared into Danny’s room, their front door closing too after a few seconds.

“You shouldn’t let him call you names like that. You deserve better.”

Because that had something to do with this conversation. Stiles shrugged, “That’s just Jackson.”

“I don’t like it,” his scowl soured further and Stiles squinted. Were they both having the same conversation? Scott never liked Jackson; that wasn’t new. Of course, Scott forgot all about it when he remembered they were talking about Allison. As he gobbled the rest of the pizza, Stiles wished he could do the same, but with this whole conversation.


	2. Friday

**~~ Type ~~**

Stiles jolted from his pillow when light  spilled through their window. He gasped. Scott thought he and Jackson were a he-and-Jackson, like…a total he-and-me. Welcome back, violent shivers. He clung to the duvet tighter, the motion forcing his head in the direction of his apparent desire.

Jackson of all motherfuckers. The same bitchy, obnoxious Jackson they made GI Joe voodoos for and placed in the pinnacle of their BB Gun obstacle course. Right now, a Jackson watered down to a mound of blankets, nothing more than ridges and hushed snoring. Only the edges of his quaff were peeking out, limp under his burrowing.  

Scott obviously thought Stiles was hot enough to hit that. If it weren’t for the alternate plan growing legs, he’d high five himself. Instead, he drifted back to sleep, despite the necessary steps keeping him from truly reaching REM.

Feeling himself more than ever, he bounded from the covers Friday morning, coming to a stand in an empty room. But, Jackson’s absence didn’t worry him. You don’t spend almost a lifetime knowing someone without a little predictably thrown into the mix. If there was good food, there was a Jackson. Sure enough, he caught his unlovely partner through the window wall, stabbing his plate of eggs, sausage, and misshapen fruit. Stiles dodged in and out of the tables, knocking into chairs and nearly toppling other guests’ trays. Their indignant cursing didn’t stop him other than to shout a backward, “sorry.” Finally, he slid into the seat next to Danny.

“Morning, my talented and mega-attractive teammates,” he beamed at a row of irritated faces, too elated to care. Ignoring the rest of the guys like they’d perfected ignoring him, Stiles settled on Jackson. Funny enough, you never noticed some things until your brain hyper-focused on them. Like both of their smiles—Jackson’s more of a muted uptick—diminishing within nanoseconds of impact. In this moment and every other, neither of them provoked the other and yet…instant repulsion.

Scott really was an adorable idiot.

Jackson hadn’t allowed a syllable to fall from Stiles’s mouth. “No,” he  grumbled, fork clattering against the table.

“Yes,” Stiles kicked  him under the table. “You don’t even know if I want something.” This time, both Jackson and Danny spared him a single grimace, blinking in sync. “Okay. Whatever, so maybe just one little favor.”

“Still a no,” Jackson didn’t bother looking up from his eggs.

“Fuck you, dude.”

Ethan came around to plop on Danny’s other side, inviting himself into the conversation, “8 in the morning and already, hostility.”

“Fuck you too,” he bartered back, only to stop himself from laughing.

Ethan clicked his tongue, eyebrows twerking over his thumbly forehead. “You got the time, we got the place.”

“Eh,” Danny helpfully shrugs, his hand trickling beneath the table, ignorant of both his and Jackson’s eye rolls, “He’s not wrong. We do have the place, just not for you.”

One table over, some guy from the Elm Wood’s Grackles, eager and hungry for attention, bellowed, “Ay Yo, burrnnnn!”   

And, say what you will about their team: disconnected, impolite, crude, a disgrace to holy cheer-work. But, they’re them and anyone outside of that fucking sucked. Without plan, everyone (including freshman) at their table glared with an intensity Stiles imagined could rival the sun. The kid muttered something about bitches under his tongue before his attention lasered on Jackson.  

“Jackson,” he punted Jackson’s shin again with bare intent. You would think being the asshole’s primary stunt partner for two years now would afford him at least a little sway. “I don’t have time for your pettiness.”

“Good. Bye.” No snarl. No sneer. Not even an unsubtle finger toward the door. Stiles surmised, something  strange was afoot.

Despite the whole thing where he barely cared, his mouth blurted, “What’s crawled up your ass?”

And then it disappeared, whatever ‘it’ had been. Not a blink passed before that weariness evaporated, in its place, a caricature of who Jackson was on his worst day. These days, one given to Stiles only when others were present.

Teeth clenched and jaw tightened, Jackson slammed his fist against fake lacquer, “How about you go be a fucktard over there?” He jabbed his fork toward the other table, where Lydia, Erica, and unsurprisingly Theo were eying them with amusement in their conniving eyes. Stiles diddled a wave to them. Only Theo diddled right back. Wiseass.

“Solid comeback, bro,” he shook his head, embarrassed enough for both of them. ”I’ll wash the Por-“

“No.”

“I’ll write your fin--”

“No.”

He huffed, throwing himself against the chair. At this rate, he’d turn fifty before he successfully reigned victorious in Operation MSM. He waited until he’d captured Jackson’s fiery gaze before trying one last time.  “Dude. I’m not above getting on my knees.”

Ethan gaped, Aiden cackled, and Danny snorted into his cereal while unmasked shock split Jackson’s glare into a million tiny pieces.

“Literal middle schoolers,” Stiles quickly back-tracked once he caught on to their train of thought, but halted as the vision plagued his thoughts and didn’t instantly repulse him, “…Though, I’m not above that either.”

Screeching metal sliced through the table. “And, I’m done. Nope.” Aiden was gone, a few of the other guys following his lead. The unnecessary snickers and cracks floated after them, leaving only space for Jackson’s furrowed indignation and Danny-Ethan’s silent amusement.  

One second passed.

Then, another.

And another.

The food court still dissonantly unaware, and yet his ears somehow latched onto streaming soda colliding over ice in recycled cups. It was easier to focus on that than the squinted intensity of Jackson’s glower. Jaw working in a way Stiles’ couldn’t quite label. Third to Danny and Lydia, he actually considered himself somewhat of a Jackson expert; there was no eye  roll, scowl, or obnoxious rant Jackson hadn’t given him.

Except this one.

Today, his jaw was too slack for pure anger, but his eyes too slitted for reluctant acceptance. Regardless of the disturbing threat roaming in Jackson’s brain, Stiles forced himself to hold eye contact. To look away was to accept  defeat and neither of them were quitters.

Eventually, after Stiles’ cheeks were blazing red, Jackson leaned back against the chair, throwing his arm across the backside. His expression assumed its usual indifference. “What do you want, Stiles?”

And he was in. Stiles Stilinski: wearing down his enemies since 1994.

Before he could psych himself out, he let the plan pour out: first, appealing to the few emotions someone like Jackson knew (i.e., the guy’s massive crush on Lydia, circa third grade); then, emphasizing diligently how Jackson’d benefit from helping someone like Stiles (read: annoying Scott McCall until the end of time); finally, wrapping it up with why his favorite stunt partner needed only his help (see: because if Stiles could trust the guy enough to hoist him six feet in the air, he could trust him with this.)

He talked and charmed and talked and charmed until the end, offering one final smile to only Jackson himself.

“Fuck no.”

He reared back, arms flying up, “Oh come on!!” Had he not prepared himself, he’d almost be insulted by the quick severity of the response. “You live to aggravate Scotty. You hate him.”

“I hate you more,” Jackson grumbled. Stiles would almost believe him if it weren’t for his rush to release it.

“Danny, Danny,” Stiles knocked on the table, as if the two sickening lovebirds weren’t waiting for the right time to speak. “Make him say yes.”

Without a single haste, Danny blinked, offering them dual bewildered expressions, “To? We caught like a third of that.”

Stiles couldn’t help the frustrated gape, even knowing he looked like a dying goldfish, “You were sitting right here.”

“We don’t speak Stilinski.”

And, yet Jackson understood him perfectly, a thought he filed for a later date. The three of them waited for his answer: Danny because he actually seemed curious, Jackson because he knew Stiles would be too embarrassed to spew it all again, and Ethan because he drank Stiles’s mortification like Gatorade.

“It’s two days,” he  offered instead.

Jackson speared his now icy, limp eggs, “Ask somebody who cares…oh wait, that’s no one.”

“What are you asking exactly?” Danny tried again as he commandeered one of Jackson’s sausages. Stiles actually faced him, the chances of Danny teasing him were high, you never really which way he’d go.

Stiles finally admitted on a huff, “I need a fake boyfriend for two days.”

“I’ll do it,” Danny chirped, his amused gaze trained more on Jackson than Stiles for some reason. Jackson didn’t bother looking back.  

“Really?” Stiles dropped his phone, legitimately stunned for the first time in awhile. Danny’s lips pulled back in a non-smirk at him, his shoulders in an indifferent shrug as if he hadn’t willingly agreed to fake date him. “Wouldn’t Ethan care?”

“Yeah, Ethan would,” Said boyfriend interjected, trying miserably to kick him off the bench. Danny mooned at his antics when he really should be scolding him for bruising Stiles’s precious body.

“Sometimes you’re too good for this world, Danny, too good. Besides, it has to be Jackson. Scott thinks it’s him.”

Out of nowhere, Jackson snatched his shirt, using the momentum to slam his head into the table. “What. did. you. do.”

Humming pain cracked through his skull, “Me..?” He gulped in air, cradling his poor cranium, “I resent the notion that I’d ever do anything wrong.”

Jackson’s jaw ticked once and Stiles wondered if Jackson had control over his bones or if they moved autonomously. At this point, he bet the latter.

“He honestly assumed,” Stiles interjected, voice cracking much to the enjoyment of the surrounding tables.  “Although, thirteen year old me might’ve shared a few savory dreams about yours untruly.” For the first time that morning, Jackson’s smugness made an appearance. “Don’t be smug,” Stiles kicked under the table again, satisfied at the choking groan when he collided with bulge. Tit for dick, dick. “Thirteen year old me also thought skeet skeet was something rappers yelled getting tipsy.”

“Everyone knows you think I’m hot, Stilinski,” his words dripped in sarcasm, but his twitching smile portrayed something else entirely. Rule #1 of getting what you want from Jackson: Stroke his ego. He could feel him cracking. All he had to do was wait and let Jackson’s opinion of himself speak for him. Finally, “Tell anyone else and you die.”

“Doubtful.”

“And don’t fucking touch me.”  

“Kinda pointless when you’re all up on this masterpiece anyway, boyfriend.” Just to prove his point, he ran a foot up the same leg he’d been tormenting, cackling at how high Jackson jumped from his chair. “You won’t regret this.”

“I already do.” He gritted, that familiar glare finding its way back home, “Now leave.”

“Mm,” Stiles faked a shiver, “Your words get me so hot, babe.” But, he did them both a favor and left. Lydia gave him a questioning glance when he fell into the empty chair by her side, but he ignored it in favor of celebrating his plan successfully falling into place.

\--

After breakfast, one could probably guess what Lydia forced them to do. Practice. Practice and more practice. Not that he minded. Cheering...that was his life, and life at this present moment was damn good. Claiming the same grassy area near the pool, she worked them until his hamstrings throbbed, but the kind that made you loose and hungry. Like swimming at a Barbecue on a scorching summer afternoon.

They were released only after she deemed Greenberg’s hurdler acceptable. To him, the fact the idiot was still struggling with a jump you learn in peewees meant they should have left him in California.

Of course, Lydia loved challenging her pet projects, exhibit A, Stiles’s collapsed body. Half the team stepped over him, headed toward the pool or their beds or the reasonably-attractive gawkers pretending not to study their routine. The other half collapsed around him, huffing their sighs and moaning their hunger. He couldn’t agree more. If only eating so soon before Mat time didn’t make him gassy.

‘I’m-just-gonna-rest-my-eyes-for-a-second’ turned into a midday nap within minutes. His eyes drifted closed to thoughts of desires.  Jackson hadn’t so much breathed in his direction since breakfast and considering they spent half the routine touching, it was an impressive feat. Stiles didn’t think he cared though. A minute without Jackson’s bitchy nagging was a minute worth living.

All too soon, Lydia was shoving him towards the hotel, thrusting a green tea at his chest, and ordering him to “Fix Himself.”

He emerged from the room, uniform starched and smile on, but no more focused than before.

“Stiles! Pull it together,” Lydia smacked his cheek, light enough to evade bruising, but hard enough to jolt him from his thoughts. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” he bulldozed over her suspicious gaze. He would do better during the routine, he always did. Pinching himself, he stuck by her side as they walked under the black arch, signaling their entrance into the ESPN complex. Cheer-filled guys and girls scattered back and forth around them, buzzing with each post-victory or pre-performance jitters. Stiles had neither. Inside the warehouse, they caught the last of Scott’s team on the practice mat.

“Good luck,” Scott mouthed, winking as Allison snuck a kiss to his cheek, effectively  causing him to stumble in place. Warmth from the wink battled with the venom of Allison’s smarmy smile; he somehow managed to wave back without awkwardly stumbling to his position. He could survive this; all he needed to do was stick to the plan. Stick to the plan, Stiles, christ.

“I know you have legs, asshat,” Jackson was saying then halted in front of him at that moment, thrusting a water bottle into his fluttery gut. The plastic crackled loud enough to draw Scott’s attention. “Use them next time.” The gruff of Jackson’s tone contradicted the confidence of his hand leaving the bottle to curl  around Stiles’s waist. Definitely effortless for a guy who’d just threatened him not five hours earlier if he returned the favor. Too stunned, he forgot to check if Scott caught this before the curtain swallowed him whole.

The instant Scott disappeared, Jackson dropped his hand, his fingertips gliding over Stiles’ waistline before the heat left altogether.  

“Thanks,” he stuttered despite the implied insult, “Try not to look like I smell like old milk though.”

“Don’t and I won’t,” Jackson bit back, intensifying his soured grimace. Stiles felt himself chuckle, his hands itching to hit something as they usually did around Jackson. Before he could stop it, his hand pushed Jackson into place behind him and shockingly, he moved willingly without any shit-talking.

“If everyone is done playing around…” Lydia’s bark seemed to resonate a decibel below the boom of Allison’s routine music. Poppy and relevant just like her. Every eye was on their captain, but Lydia’s were only for them until he physically felt Jackson’s body lock behind his, his focus shifting on their purpose. Then, Lydia transferred all that fierce command until Stiles breathed, forcing everything else to bleed away. No Allison. No Broncos. No Jackson. No Scott. “Good,” she unfolded her arms, swiveling to fall in place at the front, “Now. Can we win this thing already?”

* * *

 

**~~ Mess ~~**

“CYCLONES!!!” Their squad bellowed, twenty cups raised in the air as servers dropped skewers of various braised meats on their table. Win they absolutely did. A spot in tomorrow’s championship showdown. Not that a single person in the amphitheaters—spectator, judge, or performer alike—bet against them. They fucking rocked it, Greenberg included and to commemorate, Morrell conned Finstock into sharing his booster’s budget for a celebratory dinner at Ohana.

For tonight only, the cliques and divisions dividing them abated in favor of tearing down the other teams.

“Oh god, and those poor girls falling…” Kira was cracking up, tears in her usually kind eyes. According to Lydia apparently, he’d been too busy “playing spanky hanky” with Jackson to witness it. He chuckled with everyone anyway as his phone buzzed.

**Scott: Congrats dude!**

His smile split wider, perfectly in sync for the next joke to be cracked. Stiles gave a dramatic, “HA HA,” attention already drifting to better things.

_«thanks you too!_

**Scott: Guess we’ll see who’s better tomorrow lol**

_« ;)_

_« we both know its me_

**Scott: Haha do we? I don’t think we do.**

_« oh Scotty just you wait just you wait_

**Scott: Says the guy who can’t do a full split**

He laughed, looking up enough to see Jackson squinting at him across the table. Stiles didn’t feel like sullying his elation for their purpose of their little game, so he winked at him. Reveling in the reactionary flinch the move awarded him.

_« last time u saw my moves i was 15._

_« u might want to fact check ur claims_

**Scott: Oh, so you can do a full split now haha?**

Was Scott flirting with him? He was, right? Potentially. Years of playful ribbing and teasing desensitized his ability to decipher between jest or flirt. None of it made sense considering the girl permanently suctioned to his side. Stiles prodded a little more, for science.

_«u could just come see it in person_

His fingers erased and retyped three times before finally, he steeled himself and poked send. Heart thrumming against his ribcage, those three little dots appeared and disappeared. Almost as if Scott was doing the same thing on the other end.

“Sir, would you like more Sweet Tea?” A light voice asked over his shoulder; Stiles waved the request away and they took it as a yes. A splash of ice and tea filling his ear before drifting away. He was picking up the glass for something to do with his hands when Scott’s response finally came through.

**Scott: I would but apparently its too much for me to handle**

_Oh, 100% flirting_ —he fisted the air, triumphant.

**Scott: So what are we doing tonight?**

**Scott: Done with practice in thirty.**

Oh, shit, what were they doing tonight? Maybe, he should abandon the Jackson plan altogether. Especially, with Scott responding so well to one benign touch. Before he could respond, a hand came out of nowhere, snatching his phone from him.

Stiles jolted up to spy none other than Jackson thumbing through his private messages. “Fuck off,” he hissed, “Give it back.” He physically stopped himself from smacking him, knowing if he did, Lydia would banish him to the end of the table with gassy Greenie over there.

“That’s no way to speak to your partner, is it?” Jackson beamed, his finger tapping rapidly over Stiles’s  screen. Their teammates—all of them delirious on sugar and pride—roared above the restaurant’s Moana soundtrack. And, Jackson knew exactly how he’d worded it, strategically to pull sympathetic “yeah Stiles, be nicer” and “treat your partner with respect.” Meanwhile, only Danny and Ethan looked on with that knowing glimmer through their tears.

He stomped over to Jackson’s side of the table, “I fucking hate you sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” Satisfied, Jackson handed him the device, “Damn, I gotta step it up.”

Uttering unpleasantries, he could only sulk back to his chair, every few feet brushing off the unwanted jaunts of his teammates’ affection. And when he saw the conversation that transpired, he locked up completely.

_« no can do bud buddy_

_« out with jackson tonight_

_« he wanted to chill with his guys but i forced him to hang with me_

_« havent sucked his dick yet sooo know what i mean_

_« im thinking magic kingdom wdyt_

Jackson cheesed in his direction—perfect and fucking pure—wafting a complete ignorance for the death threats Stiles chanted in his head. Where was a GI Jackson Voodoo when you needed it? How could he play off words that sounded like they came from his mouth? Or deny the base level of coherency he usually wove without punctuation and capitalization. Every letter, every space as effortless as if Stiles crafted them with his own fingers. A part of him (buried beneath years of resentment and hatred) felt impressed.

He was studying Jackson as much as Jackson was studying him. To a guy who thought himself above everyone, Stiles mattered. His attention zapped below as Scott’s response arrived in rapid succession.

**Scott: Nooo bro, self respect.**

**Scott: You don’t need him if he doesn’t want you.**

**Scott: Also TMI…but good for you!**

**Scott: Magic Kingdom’s cool. Maybe not for the second part though…**

_« never know how the nights gonna blow until you live it_

_« gonna blow lmao_

_« completely natural im hilarious_

**Scott: Lol you’re something alright.**

**Scott: Have fun dude!**

_« u too. talk tomorrow_

**Scott: Yep! Talk tomorrow!**

* * *

**~~  Paradise | Electric ~~**

“This is your fault,” Stiles droned, hopping off the monorail, Magic Kingdom’s opening gates looming ahead. “If you hadn’t moved your fat fingers, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

With the stars coalescing above them and the sky darkening to a clear umber, all of Magic Kingdom seemed to twinkle except them. Clumps of other teens and couples, somehow never-ceasing, pushed around them to breach the opening gates. Unlike their teammates who had balked and hooted when they broke from the group, these strangers thought nothing odd of two teenagers relishing Disney After Hours in the most romantic place in the park, each invading the other’s space by habit, not choice.

Jackson shuffled beside him,  burying his hands in his chinos. “Don’t be fat-phobic.”

“Me?! I shouldn’t be fat–phobic?! You’re the one who told Erica to put down her second skewer!”

“I saved her life by a week.”

“You’re such a fucking shit.”

“Thanks for noticing,” Jackson  huffed like standing here was wasting his precious brain cells. Stiles had to force himself from striking another argument, “Are we doing this or what?” His nonchalance, above everything, pissed him off the most, as if this whole plan had been Stiles’ idea. As if he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.

“I still don’t know what _this_ is considering _this_ was your idea.” Whatever their night had in store, he broke for the smallest line knowing if one of them didn’t, they’d be on the outs fighting for the bulk of it. When he couldn’t feel Jackson strutting behind him, Stiles threw his head back. “Would you move your ass,” he doubled back, pinching the gap between Jackson’s thin V-neck and hard muscles. Soft cotton calmed his fingers and he reminded himself to sneak a look at the brand for future reference.

Jackson kept his hand there until after they breached the gate, his glare looking two shades too forced as he soothed the result wrinkles from Stiles’ tight grip. He pretended not to notice for both of them.

Some Demi Lovato song, circa Disney Channel era, blasted as they immersed themselves further into the lights—all quaint bodegas and slick cobblestones streets. For three years, they’d made it to Spring Championships and every year, Lydia (and her sister before her) dominated their every minute with workouts and practices. Well, they were Seniors now and this was the first time he’d gotten to stand on these streets. Stiles didn’t think was an emotions kind of guy, but even he could feel the childlike wonder creep up on him. His chest growing tighter as Cinderella’s castle illuminated an ombre of blue and pink.

He snuck a glimpse of Jackson, expecting something rude like the asshole’s camera to flash in his face. But, Stiles managed to catch his head tilted elsewhere, his eyes almost twinkling compared to their usual hardness. Following his gaze, he snickered, “Want to get a picture?” He nodded towards Mickey and Minnie, entertaining a cattle of small children with autographs and pins.

“What.” Jackson snapped away, seeming to follow Stiles’ train of thought only after he wiggling his eyebrows. “Fuck off, no.” Naturally, his shoulders began to rise again courtesy of Stiles, leading his branded mask of indifference.

The whole picture existed to make him laugh harder. “Oh my god,” he choked on his own breathing, “So dramatic. Come on.” He started pulling again. If the only  thing to come out of this night was making Jackson look like an embarrassed five year old by shepherding him around everywhere, he’d call this little experiment a success.

“Hi!” He waved to Minnie and Mickey as their mini audience lost interest and scattered. Even knowing there were regular people wearing the character’s faces, simply making a living, he breathed life into a resulting smile when they simultaneously thrusted their arms wide like he and Jackson were the stars. Minnie gestured them forward and Stiles drugged Jackson forward, “Can he get a photo?”

They nodded enthusiastically. Thankfully, Stiles didn’t have to position him in the middle like a literal toddler. For his part, he shuffled back, preparing for that photo magic.

“Oh sweetie no,” a woman interrupted his toggling. She commandeered his phone,  her Disney World employee logo glinting off his phone’s brightness. “That’s why I’m here. Get in there,” her smile telling him she swore her helpfulness was doing him a solid. Stiles started to protest, already primed with 5 reasons why his body had no business being in this photo. 1. He --

“--Stiles,” Jackson’s groan sliced through the carefree ambiance, “Stop wasting these people’s time.”  

He shuffled and shuffled until the plush of Minnie on his right squeezed him into the hard lines of Jackson on his left. Only he tuned into the tiny puff of air Jackson expounded as Stiles’ bony elbow jutted into his arm. He expected Jackson’s muffled comment to ruin the effervescent thrill or for him to push him away subtly. Soft enough not to trigger Minnie on the opposite side. Of all the options, he never considered Jackson would wrap a comfortable, non-threatening hand around his neck. Tugging their bodies close enough, Mickey’s elongated arm had enough inches to encapsulate both of them AND land of Minnie’s dress. He knew what they looked like: two couples in theoretical love.

“Oohs” and “Awws” drifted above them, their gathered audience capturing the picturesque moment for their own scrapbooks.

“Two couples, how adorable,” A woman to his left sighed.

“Love is love is love.” Someone in the back.

“Such a magical night,” Someone else was saying.

And like that, they became the picture of sexual equality in the world of Disney. Stiles fought not to croak at how ridiculously fake the whole thing felt. How was Jackson containing his attitude, pressed against Stiles from shoulder to hip, hand now fallen to his hips, smile still full watt for the photographer demanding black and white shots. Perhaps, Jackson was barely concealing his irritation and Stiles couldn’t feel it over the projection of Minnie and Mickey’s supposed love. He told himself he’d turn and look for a second while the woman figured out his camera. The second he shifted, centimeters from the pale freckles dotting Jackson’s cheekbones, smile still activated, he spied the flash.

Oh great. Moment memorialized.

Somehow, they fell into their normal dynamic where Stiles did something 100% normal, Jackson found some reason to laugh at him, and Stiles retaliated by harming him.

He tripped. Laugh. Swat.

He shrieked bloody murder in the Haunted Mansion. Gut bursting laugh. Punch.

He stopped to take a super dope photo with Captain Hook. Soft chuckles. Kick.

Even while dripping wet, they managed to circle around to Stiles’s derp face in the Mickey-Minnie photo. “Your face! Such a freak,” Jackson cackled, absent-mindedly forcing him off Splash Mountain, his head still spinning from the ride. His foot nearly caught in the crack between the ride and the platform. Jackson was still teasing him about the photo…six rides later. Of course, not only about the photo,

“HA HA, dickbag,” he shoved him away, snickering the slightest bit when the idiot landed in a pile  of girls waiting at the line’s entrance. Instantly, they seemed to notice them from the competition and latched on to his shirt to hold him hostage. Stiles marveled at his handiwork until a Sharpie appeared, headed for Jackson’s arm. Lydia would kill them if they returned marred, temporary or not.   

“Okkk…” He interrupted, knocking the marker to the ground. “I need his body as is, thanks ladies.” Finally, he could laugh as Jackson stalked away, still dripping like a wet rat.

“Keep laughing, Stiles 1 : Me 8. You still lose.”

“In what game? I stopped paying attention,” he bantered back, dropping onto the nearest picnic table.

Jackson lowered down next to him, “Not surprised,” arm resting back on the wooden planks inches away from Stiles’. He blinked between himself, Jackson, their arms, and the entire bench on the other side. True on brand Stiles would call him out, accuse him of years of latent desires while Jackson’s aura darkened enough to walk away. True on brand Stiles would have never entertained this entire night and probably ended up eating lukewarm pizza in his room as Scott droned on and on about the wonders of Allison’s touch. They’d done that the past three years and look at what that clusterfuck got him. More pining.

For a few rare moments, silence fell between them, both content to take in the scene around them. A few families here and there, mostly stray pairs of kids like them. The lake glittering in the moonlight. Party in the USA barely audible over the dissonant rush of Splash Mountain. The smell of man-produced algae stifling the air.

No one, not even Scott, would believe he and Jackson managed a civil evening in one another’s presence. Not a serious argument yet. Even now, these silences never transpired unless they were drenched with sweat, muscles aching, and drilling stunts until perfection. Hmm, that actually didn’t sound entirely shitty right now.

“Wanna practice?” He blurted, shifting his body in to gauge Jackson’s reaction. The rough timber of his own voice startled him more than the intended. Jackson side-eyed him, his brow forming the same arch as the coaster plummeting behind his head. Stiles felt himself smile a few moments at the coincidence before returning to equilibrium.

“Lydia bitch about us again?”

Us. _Bad shivers, No. Jackson bad, Scott good._ He clamped tight on his body as a hot flash of embarrassment wracked through him. “What. No. Nevermind.”   

Jackson’s aura did the darkening thing again while he observed him, his eyes tracking over Stiles’s face intently. Suddenly, a smirk took hostage of his expression, transforming him into the Jackson Stiles was beginning to associate him with entirely. “You don’t want that.”

“Bruh,” Stiles kicked the table, “I literally just asked if you wanted to.”

Abruptly, Jackson pounced up and Stiles had no choice but to trail after him.  Past the shivery-timbers of Adventureland and past Antebellum Liberty. He almost thought Jackson was leading him home, but they passed the Main entrance, only stopping when a white railing loomed above.

Tomorrowland People Mover. Jackson took the escalator three steps at a time, rather than patiently waiting for its gradual incline like a sane person. When he (a sane person) reached the top, Jackson was busy chatting with the ride attendant, canting his body towards her like he actually gave a flying fuck about whatever personal detail she was telling him. He barely acknowledged him when Stiles drifted to a stop before his interest-ridden body. Such a faker.

Or not, she hadn’t waited for any other riders to appear after Jackson bid her goodnight and dodged into a waiting blue cart, Stiles silently following after him.

Darkness encased them as the cart edged deeper into a tour of historical Tomorrowland. He could only sit silently long enough for the first glimpse of the park to flash in his peripheral then disappeared as they returned to their tour.

“Wanna share why we’re–” he choked at the clank of a belt, his. Thoughts rushed from his brain, pushed out with all the blood traveling south as Jackson disappeared between the quickening shadows of a moving pane. Then, they were exposed to the open night, but the only person visible from the ground was Stiles himself. Probably incoherently choking at the sight, the sensation of his dick no longer solely belonging to him. Something in Jackson seemed to freeze even with one hand wrapping around his dick and the other gripping into the fattiest part of his thigh. Now, having been submerged back into the dark pits of the ride, Stiles could barely make out anything besides the whites of his eyes darting over and away from Stiles' struck gaze and the moon of his fingernails loosening and tightening around his dick. It occurred after the fourth pulse- guilty eye shift that Jackson was asking for consent in his nonverbal, passive-aggressive way. 

His words, confidence returned to him at the same speed of the revelation. "Dude, you're already down there. Might as well-"

"Say dude again and-" Jackson's voice thrummed against his skin, gritty despite the wind battling it.

"You'll what-" he felt his stomach clench from his sudden hunch. The pain was worth it at the way Jackson flinched away, "Do what you're already about to do? Be my _guest_." 

It might have been dark, but he could still see the dramatic eye roll just as the cart released them back into the open air. Hot on Cold. Wet then Wind Dried. It was all too much sensation at once and he couldn't move an inch without tipping off the dozens of people enjoying their Family-friendly fun below them. Jackson took him deeper, thankfully too preoccupied to protest the obvious grip Stiles raked through his hair. Not tight enough to hurt, but enough to release tension threatening to come out another way. His toes arched under the wet het, still seizing by the impossibility of it all. Jackson Whittemore on his knees for _him_ , Stiles Stilinski.

“Holy fu-” the rest succumbing to a high moan he knew Jackson would pester him about later. If he actually survived this.

The ride went on for what felt like hours, but could have only been a few glorious minutes. Looking back on it, he didn’t think he’d remember a single damn thing about the PeopleMover. Other than Jackson’s precious head bobbing in his lap. His mouth too hot, but tantalizingly wet. Hands stroking Stiles’ balls like God designed them to cure stress. His lips occasionally stopping to reign kisses up Stiles’ thighs, a conflictingly soft contrast from his original brutality. Considering Stiles was falling in love with that fucking brutality. He honestly tried to keep it up, had pleaded for his body to give him  a few more minutes of pleasure. They were gliding over technicolor spinning teacups when he reached the tipping point, his hidden hand smacking against Jackson’s forearm to let up. He didn’t, shocker.

Stiles found enough control to roll his eyes just before he exploded. His body floating on a cloud of insanity, riding the few aftershocks pulsing through him. It seemed absurd to him that whatever employee DeeJaying tonight commenced another round of Nostalgic Disney, Jonas Brothers--Burning Up style. Laughter ripped through his core before he could stop himself as Jackson rolled his eyes, tucking him back in.

The haze over Stiles’ gaze cleared just in time to watch him lick cum from his lips and he never wanted to kiss someone as desperately as he had in this moment.

Jackson’s new buddy—as perky and trained as when they left her—waved them goodbye, her nose wrinkling unconsciously. If only she knew how hard it was to place one foot after the other. How he craved for his own mattress and like five more of whatever that was.

A good citizen, Stiles waited until she and the PeopleMover drifted a distant memory before he shoved Jackson into the escalator’s black rail. Boxing Jackson in, Stiles tortured him a little, thumbs mapping the creases of his back pockets. Nothing will ever be more satisfying than the flash of uncertainty clouding Jackson’s smugness. Or, how his body unwillingly sought Stiles out when he leaned back the tiniest bit.

“Did you plan-” His voice rasped when he finally forced the words out. Jackson fell back into his arrogance, attempting to push him away again. Stiles paused, inhaled, and tried again. This time only marginally better, “You planned this when you texted Scott.”

Jackson’s gaze blazed over his, the enclosed aisle of the escalator feeling tighter than it already was, “Is that a question?”

“Oh fuck,” Stiles bounded back, the thought sucker-punching him. “You were talking about you.”

Panic flashed. Jackson broke away from him, strutting the final few black steps. In all their eighteen years of non-friendship, he’d never seen Jackson walk so fast. Not even on Taco Tuesday and the guy was a slut for some Cilantro. His legs literally wobbled as he tried to catch up. They made it through the Main entrance before Stiles snagged his arm, yanking him back. “Damn Usain Bolt, have some compassion. Still recovering over here,” he gestured to his by now (with all the friction and bouncing) sobbing dick.

Jackson had the audacity to snort at his antics, too amused to remember the whole running from him concept. The bus to their hotel pulled away from the station yet he couldn’t find it in him to give a damn. “So what–” he rasped, “You like me now?”

That awarded him a chuckling snort, “I have to like you to want your dick?”

Christ, was he always this vulgar? Stiles looked around, seemingly satisfied at their lack of attention before responding. “That’s usually how that works, YES!” His own outburst drawing more eyes than Jackson’s. Ears burning, Stiles dragged him to the half-enclosed awning of the bus stop. Save for a few elderly ladies, their conversation was undeniably theirs.

Of course, Jackson didn’t waste a second stalking into his space, “Tell me then…” his forefinger sliding through a belt loop too close to where he was still throbbing, his eyes fluttering on instinct. It was definitely harder to worry about onlookers with Jackson so close, his lips floating up his jawbone, making the air’s kiss cooler by comparison. How the hell did we get here, he thought to himself once Jackson reached his ear. “Why does Scott think we’re together?”

“I already told you.”

“Tell me again,” he uttered.

“You just like flattering yourself.”

Jackson actually laughed at that, the same laugh he’d reserved for Danny, light and amused with a hint of appreciation, “Not a lie.”

He gulped, brain beginning to glitch the longer Jackson toyed with the edge of his tee, the pads of his fingers burning into Stiles’s skin despite the layer between them. His tongue burned with the same intensity, to give Jackson everything he asked for, to ask for everything in return. And yet, his defiance blocked him, telling him if he did, Jackson would always expect it from him. He pushed against his pecs, seeking an ounce of breathing room much to the disappointment of Jackson’s unmovable chest. “No, you tell me.”

“Newsflash nerd, it’s the same reason Lydia forces us to be partners every year.” he dragged a single finger down Stiles’ arm, smirking at the stupid, treacherous shiver it elicited. “Your body has always exploded next to mine,” his voice was barely above a whisper. Stiles groaned in spite of himself. “And no matter how many times precious McCall winks or calls you stupid pet names.” He could no long ignore both of their arousals with Jackson pressing against him in every way. “He won’t ever make you shudder like I do.”

Jackson gave him a final thrust under the shadow of the bus stop and tiny aftershocks of his earlier orgasm betrayed him. The bus chose that moment to pull up and with true dramatics, Jackson strutted onto the bus. His legs, however, couldn’t do more than sink down into the bench beneath his ass. He caught the edges of his smirk before the bus  pulled away.

Stiles shook his head, “Fuck, I’m so fucked.”

A few yards away, the elderly ladies turned to him. He caught only the closest one’s uptick brow before glancing away.

“You sure are, young man,” the woman rasped, her head shaking empathetically before their Lyft pulled up. After another minute, they abandoned Stiles too.


	3. Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter is dedicated to Gee-Dionysaurus who braved these last 16,000 words on less than a full night's sleep and still dusted off the rust. And of course, jacksonstilinskis who convinced me not to word-smith for the next half a century! Please show their upcoming fics all the love cause they deserve it.

**~~ Want To | May I Have This Dance |  Let’s Get Loud | Contra La Pared ~~**

So...that happened last night. His repulsive, self-involved routine partner had dropped to his knees to bless Stiles with a gift that unknowingly kept on giving. Several times last night in the empty hotel room they usually shared, in fact. Jackson still evaded him when he finally dragged his pleasure-wrecked body up the next morning.

He’d have stayed in bed were it not for Erica and Lydia forcing him into “quality” time. Instead of reliving the wet heat of Jackson’s surprise attack, they forced him to traipse through a land of captivated safari animals.

 _“Sun can’t give you that D if you’re hiding in here, Batman,”_ Erica helpfully advised him as she and Lyds whipped his stale sheets off.

He desperately wanted to tell them he’d gotten another type of D no less than a few hours prior. Of course, if he had, the complete story would have to accompany it and he still struggled to connect the dots himself.

Thus, more than 14 hours, 12 animal themed attractions, 3 geeky Giraffe souvenirs, and too many innuendos later, burnt amber darkened the sky once again. Again, he found himself surrounded by too many teammates, this time at the apex of the competition’s infamous block party. Unlike last night, Jackson, Danny, and the twins were unsurprisingly MIA.

Some bass-obsessed Latinx jam swayed the hips of nearly every teenager, male and female alike, some not even apart of championship weekend. He lounged near their claimed picnic tables, cackling every so often as Erica forced Theo to show off his salsa game. He could feel the bass from the curl of his toes to the pads of his fingers, a syncopating heat.

He’d always loved the Saturday Night Block Party at Nationals, four hours to revel in the magical debauchery of their youth.

Neon rays illuminating what nature intended as a darkened sky. A light breeze brazen enough to chill his forehead and nerves without the need for a jacket. Bodies suffocating him in the best way. The stench of sweat and vegan hot dogs clogging the air. Mickey’s grandiose blue and red hat adorning the stage. And knowing this would be their last one…

He shoved down the swell of panic threatening his relaxed mood.

“Stiles! Come dance with us!!” Erica whined, her hips beckoning him. Nothing like the liquid courage of her confiscated Peach Schnapps to rile her up.

He waved her away. “Not if you want your feet unharmed. Ask Theo.”

“If he’s lying?” Theo smouldered in his way that could only mean destruction. Stiles reminded himself to stay the hell out of his path; Theo the Conqueror never led to anything worth sharing the following morning and Jackson gave him enough to worry about. Theo twirled her petite frame under his outstretched arm. “He is.”

She pouted. “I know he is. I’ve seen your moves, baby.”

“Whose moves?” A sultry timber interrupted, far too deep and quick-paced for Theo. One he knew too well.

Like the drama queen he channeled, Jackson emerged from his backdrop of gyrating bodies, parting a sea of dancers to join them. Literally, a tunnel of hot, blissed-out faces, gyrating hips, and bubble butts surrounded him and Stiles _still_ couldn’t draw his gaze elsewhere. What the hell was wrong with him? Did he take a 48 hour valium without knowing yesterday morning?

“Jackson! Danny!” Erica shouted, breaking from Theo and forcing the same hug upon the both of them. He supposed the Peach Schnapps made her forget all the physical altercations that usually passed between she and Jackson on a normal Saturday. Jackson might’ve grunted under her embrace minimally, but his gaze never strayed from him. “Make Stiles dance with me.” She pouted. “You know how to control him.”

 _He did?_ Certainly news to Stiles. Stretching out his legs, he relaxed his elbows back against the table, hoping it gave off an air of ‘I don’t need to be here.’

“Stiles does what he wants,” Jackson roughed back, one of his exposed pecs flexing in syncopation with the syllables. Mostly Stiles wanted to know who dared give him permission not to wear a shirt? Didn’t they have regulations against this kind of thing?

“So he can only dance with you?” More pouts. “It’s not fair.”

His smirk seemed more for Stiles as he broke away from them. “That’s life.”

He never, in a billion light years thought he’d admit this, but the six seconds it took for Jackson to stretch his big feet the eight yards to Stiles felt like a full minute. Predictably, once he reached him, he kept going until Stiles’ elbows scraped deeper into the table’s splintering wood and Jackson settled a knee on the exposed bench beside him. To the outside eye, they must look quite antagonistic, Jackson all but looming over him.

_Oh that Jackson and Stiles, always at each other’s throats._

In a minute, they’d be at more than that if he didn’t control his hands. He gripped tight to the picnic bench for the sake of keeping the traitors preoccupied.

“This is the most--” Stiles started, but paused under the shock of a groan escaping with it. “-Even for you.” He flicked a careless finger downward, his eyes too intrigued not to openly show his appreciation.

Red bandana pushing back sweat-soaked hair.

Tight shorts, fraying rips edging closer and closer to his crotch with every centimeter he stretched over Stiles.

A black light rainbow painted down his chest, wafting vaguely of lemongrass and citronella. “I mean really--if there was ever the perfect depiction of a fuck boy.”

“Why should I deny my fans what they desire?”

“Surprised you deigned to give us a show at all.”

Jackson’s eyes sparked in surprise, almost as if he hadn’t expected Stiles to drop them immediately into unfamiliar territory so early into the night. For a moment, another sensation mixed with their charged air. Awkward couldn’t quite describe it. Edgy? Cringe-worthy? Vexatious?

Whatever emotion expressed how he wanted to simultaneously stab and lick across all that exposed skin. He couldn’t relay for certain how long they stayed locked in that position, Jackson daring him to push them even further and Stiles focusing on keeping his dinner where it belonged.

Danny saved them, already more sweaty than when Stiles last saw him. “What’s up?” He offered Stiles a quick elbow bump, his darting eyes letting him know how much he knew about Stiles’ burgeoning sex life. “You seen the Queen and her worker bees anywhere?”

“Last I saw they were headed to the bar. 20 ish minutes ago.”

“Great, I lost my boyfriend.”

He wrapped a drifting leg around Jackson’s angled toward his, toothy smile widening cheekily, “You can have mine.”

“Oh geez, thanks Stiles. So generous.” Danny laughed brightly, his dimples on full display. They cut deeper at the glorious flush settling on his best friend’s cheeks.

It was the wrong thing to say or perhaps the right thing with the wrong timing. Erica chose that moment to find her clarity, despite the yards her spins had taken her from homebase. “Aww, Papí!” She squealed, sliding into the space next to him. The force of her body made him collide flush against Jackson’s side. Neither of them bothered moving. “You got a boy toy?”

A shrill frequency sharpened over the crowd, cutting off his obligation to respond. He followed the wave of bodies shifting toward the stage, most of them protesting for the lack of beat drop.

“Hello hello, Cheer Friends! How are we tonight?” This weekend’s head judge materialized on stage, his tan orange , even under artificial lights.

Groans and greetings battled for dominance as more people gathered around centerstage. An anticipatory thrill hovered over them. For several minutes, the man waxed poetic about the importance of partnership and trust in the cheerleading community. How they should honor a sport that existed equal parts collaborative and competitive.

If Stiles had given the speech more than 30% of his attention, he’d have taken the moment to shout something about all sports being that way. Unfortunately,  even that much was proving to be difficult once Jackson lowered down onto his other side, leg purposefully pressing into Stiles’ at every point. He inhaled through the overload threatening to consume him again. Then, Jackson had to ruin it by dragging his thumb roughly under the spot where his shorts and shirt kissed. The judge was saying something else, too wired to even try for his already minimal attention. He coughed, realizing too late the move arched his spine further against Jackson’s roaming fingers. For a prolonged minute, they both froze and he wondered if Jackson would stop once he’d successfully proved Stiles’ attraction last night hadn’t been a fluke. That he affected Stiles all the same without having to get drop to his knees to do it.

He counted four mississippi's, breath trapped like a fly in his throat before that thumb moved again. This time, drifting lower and lower until it crested the edge of his ass. A vibration only for him to experience. Good to know they were done with the ‘it’s all pretend’ game plan.

“So, let’s see how many of you really know your partners!!” Thunderous cheers jolted him back to the present moment. Couples started pushing past them in droves to reach the stage before Stiles could fully come back to himself.

He shifted closer to Jackson only to avoid the rush of sweaty bodies barraging him. “What’s happening?” he heard himself ask, voice too crackling and strained ever for him.

He froze under her calculating eyes, comparing the disproportionate space separating her and Stiles to the sliver of air between him and Jackson. The MC’s call for three more couples seemed to do the trick, returning that catty smile back to her loose pout. “You’re really dancing with me now, batman,” she gripped his hand, ”I want free food.”

 _Free food?_ They’d yet to clue him in on what chaos had attacked the crowd, let alone the prize to come from it. They couldn’t make it three steps before Jackson yanked him back, “He’s dancing with me.”

“I thought _Stiles_ did what he wants.” She sneered back, fists almost immediately drawing to her hips. You could hear the gears in her head, clanking together the touches and suggestive hints he and Jackson dropped within the last 24 hours. Then, finally, her eyes settled on the unwavering grip of Jackson’s hand fastened around his wrist. (That was a whole other conversation he didn’t want to touch unless they were locked in a room with only two beating hearts.)

“ _Stiles_ does do what he wants and he wants you to stop acting like children _,”_ he interjected himself back into the conversation, pleading her not to cause a scene. They were one muttered insult away from ruining it all with Erica who somersaulted between whimsical and belligerent in the span of seconds and Jackson who simply lived on belligerent regardless of his sobriety levels.  

“We good here?” Danny asked, finally coming up against Jackson’s side cautiously. Sometime in between before and then he’d found Aiden-not-Ethan, who he noticed was settling in next to Theo’s side. Both of their normally indifferent gazes were growing more hungry for excitement with each intensified moment.

Stiles groaned, snapping both his hands free. He used the freedom to push Jackson until he was at a safe, watchful distance away from an explosion.

The microphone squealed, “This stage is TOO EMPTY, my FRIENDS! We need two more partners to get us started.”

Erica’s eyes started widening, whether from growing bored or settling upon another game to play altogether. Stiles trusted her even less as she winked, gesturing to the stage in a butler’s bow. Her golden hair falling in a trellis around her. “You subjecting yourself to public ridicule is enough for me. Have fun.”

“Yeah...I’m not doing th-” Jackson pulled him away by the pinch of his shirt. “And I wonder why I can’t have nice things.”

“I am a nice thing.”

“Said who?” Stiles leered, twisting himself until he didn’t feel like a petulant dog in a park.  Soon, they were both facing the stage, now looming his technicolor doom. All the lights and sparkle always looked majestic from at least 20 feet away. Stiles dug his heels into the squishy dirt, “I’m not going up there, so you can piss on Erica another way.”

“You are and I will.”  

“I don’t know why you’re so certain this is happening cause its not. I don’t do dance in front of other people _..._ ” He could barely finish with Jackson slitting a fast look at him, no other message conveyed besides a petty _bitch please._ “You want a show later? Be a man and ask for it.”

“You’ll give me both.”

He really wished this whole confidence act pissed him off as much as it used to. Or that he could dredge up more than a half-ass sneer as they reached the gate to the stage.

“Hi!!” A woman holding a clipboard and walkie waved at them, her smile actually genuine for a job of babysitting five-hundred teens and preteens. “ _Found another one,”_ she chirped in her ancient machine; only waiting seconds for another crackling “10-4” back.

Stiles tried his hardest to beg her with his eyes, (doefully) widening them in the same manner he tricked his dad’s deputies into letting him off on speeding tickets.

“Aren’t you two a sight,” she squealed, “Up the stairs, follow the lights.”

“You can’t do this to me!!” He channeled the anguish of every Dexter and Hannibal victim ever, “I’m being held hostage!” Her laugh flittered after them, high and sparkly like a sprite, but may as well have been twisted and sinister like a hag for all the help it did him.

LED lights warmed his skin the closer Jackson pulled him to the stage and then they were there, standing impossibly amongst 13 other couples. Instantly, twenty-eight other heads snapped to size them up, judging their level of threat. They could only blame their unimpressed glaze over his chiseled-less body in favor of Jackson for the competitive fire that kicked through him. He might not be the world’s sexiest male cheerleader here or have muscles bulging the size of some of these girls’ heads. But, Stiles didn’t see anyone else averaging 10 flip combos in one routine, THEN bolsting enough stamina to back handstand on someone’s arms after soaring twenty feet in the air.

Judging by his intrigued glance-over, Jackson seemed to notice the moment Stiles triggered, “A few losers is all it takes?”

He huffed, his chin lifting proudly on its own, “I’m better than everyone on this stage.”

“Almost everyone,” Jackson cracked back, smirking up at him slightly. It was easier to remember their inch height difference when Stiles was the one curving against his back, rather than what the routine required of them, the other way around.

“Whatever you say, shorty,” he ran a bold palm through the tendrils of Jackson’s choppy quiff, pleasantly stunned when the strands didn’t fight back. He always imagined they’d be stiff with gel and anger. Before the rumbling and grumbling began, he let his hand fall naturally, grazing more than one inch of sweaty warmth on the way down, “If we’re doing this, you better commit.”

Jackson’s nose flared like Stiles directly looped him in with the troupe of losers.

“Don’t be all butthurt,” he waved away the bitchiness as the MC called for a final pair. He shifted closer and lowered his voice to stop the nosy pair on their right from listening in. “You have to follow me and I have to follow you. They’re no steps telling us how to move next. And don’t…” he paused, ruminating on the right warning. Finally, he settled on, “Get too close,” even if he felt he hadn’t completely explained himself.

“Why not?” The confusion barely lasted a second before that smugness returned,  “Wait---are actually afraid of everyone seeing how much you like it?”

He hated how the stage’s light beams illuminated his cheeks, placing his rapidly blooming flush on full display. Swallowing, he’d meant for his response to manifest as frenzied sarcasm or sputtering indignity, more flying hands and exasperated sighs. What came out instead was a naked, barely-audible, “Uh yeah, kinda.”

Stiles felt like a mystical force was punching him the throat from how long he waited for Jackson to respond. Give him anything besides furrowed brows and a stunned silence. He knew images of last night were flashing through both of them. Knowing his hot, gripping hands would be roaming over Stiles again in front of their entire competition, and in a way he wouldn’t be able to predict, was doing the trick already.

Jackson’s gaze widened, canting lower to his lips, to his chest, then the length of his body finally settling on the bulge he irrationally feared was visible even to Erica and their friends near the back row. “Save that for my after show.”

He ran a nervous hand through his own hair. “If we lose, there won’t be an after show.”

“We won’t lose then,” Jackson declared resolutely. He grumbled once then shifted forward like Stiles imagined the entire exchange.

“And welcome to the stage our last couple!” The MC bellowed to the skip-skip-thunder of the newest pair. Stiles forced a smile to his face and turned to spy what lucky pair joined the party.

Scott’s gooey smile flashed back at him, his hand clinging to Allison’s as they halted diagonal right of them. The last time they interacted Stiles was ‘waxing enthusiastically about sucking Jackson’s dick.’ This night just went from unexpected to worse; he groaned, thunking his head heavily against Jackson’s spine.

“What?” He felt the tight, controlled cords of Jackson’s back ripple as he searched for the offender, “Oh this can’t get any better. McCall, what’s up?!” His tone jovial, like the two of them were the ones with a decade of birthday packages and secret handshakes.

“You exist to torture me.”

“At least you know.”

Soon, there was equipment introduced and rules explained. As he understood the challenge, it was Pitch Perfect without the singing and twice the bigger wheel. The wheel would whirl randomly to a different dance style and a song would come on each time and they had twenty seconds to shift styles or fear elimination. Once they reached three couples, the crowd would crown their victor. Winner got $100 of room service tonight before the last day of competition. (Like more carbs and protein was what he required the night before they performed. Not that Jackson’s immediate attention after that revelation surprised him any.)

Never before had he been thankful for Lydia’s obsessive tendency to experiment with dance more than traditional cheerleading. Over the years, she’d force them into classes ranging from tap to contemporary to merengue to jive and she’d forced Jackson on him for each one.

 _“Guess I’m seeing them now, huh?”_ Scott mouthed to him while everyone else limbered up and talked strategy. “ _Still time to back out.”_

Stiles grinned, eyes flicking to Allison’s polite nod for a split second. “ _You’d like that wouldn’t you?”_

**_“Immensely.”_ Scott’s bouncing charm plus the heat of Jackson’s jealousy radiating in front of him too much to handle at once. Stiles winked as the first song kicked off. **

* * *

**~~ Electric | Goosebumps | Heartbeat ~~**

The journey from the block party to the hotel felt like traveling from one end of LA to the other. All the people and monorail traffic and cars to dodge when all he wanted was an empty room. They’d already managed to ditch the team near the back of the stage, slipping under the criss-crossed metals of its frame. Didn’t that deserve enough good karma?

Jackson hadn’t stopped touching him since they won the dance off and it was driving him fucking insane. Nothing too obvious which honestly seemed worse. Rather a few fingers ghosting his hips. A palm tapping him onto the monorail. An intertwined leg stopping the rail’s jerking from careening him into some family’s feeble grandpa. Tiny private promises of the fantastic dicking to come.

At least, he hadn’t expected the People Mover and thus, had never came so hard in his uneventful life. But, how different would it have been if Jackson asked, “Want to go somewhere dark so I can blow you like a pro?” Would it still be this hot omen hovering over them? Or would he—perpetual spaz—have found some way to fuck it up because he didn’t have a seductive bone in his body.

“They beat us here?!” He scowled at their hotel door, more out of horniness than anger. Their collective laughter spilled further under the door, filling the hallways like pubescent (elation) tended to do. He turned to Jackson for a plan. “I will seriously kill–”

“Go get us some ice,” Jackson commanded, his tone hard and demanding. Adding that with the death in his glare, it made him more rough than pretty. Stiles swallowed, deciding he fucked with the Jackson who channeled his ire on other people for him.

Stiles pushed him up against the doorframe like an out of body experiment, his hands and his burning desire to see his chest without the rainbow war paint, but without the little voice still warning him not to be fumbling virgin. “With what bucket?” He asked in the shadowed crook of his neck, pressing his lips there to what reaction Jackson would give him.  

So far, it’d always been Jackson making him want to crawl out his skin, forcing him lose control. Either this was a fucked-up game to get him in a compromising position or Jackson’s self-control was more impressive than he thought. Either way, Stiles accepted the challenge, his anxiety evaporating like steam over a heated  pool.

His smile widened as Jackson violently shivered, his teeth accidentally scraping over his skin. Jackson pushed him away, his shoulders squaring at the door.“Stay here.”

“Why?”

“I can’t do this with you watching.”

“And this is wh–” Before he could finish saying what, Jackson snatched the ‘Do Not Disturb’ door sign and with a key click, burst through the door.

“Out!” If their neighbors thought their teammates were loud, they weren’t prepared for Jackson’s yell, reverberating off the door, currently splintering into plaster. “Get out now.”  Stiles ducked his head in for a quick look, his mouth immediately warming at the platters of delicious, five-star worthy food plated over every surface. Chicken Fingers and Buffalo Wings on the coffee table, Spinach Artichoke Dip and Pita Chips cradled over Aiden’s lap, A fruit and vegetable tray near empty on Stiles’ bed, Curly Fries on Jackson’s, enough Cranberry and Orange juice cans to satisfy an entire summer camp. And, God knows what else.

All Tasmanian Devil, Jackson whipped around the room ripping relaxed bodies off their furniture and throwing their socked feet onto the floor. Stiles pretended not to see the fate of the few people unlucky to grab a carpet seat. True to his word, not once did he train those thunderous green eyes on Stiles, always missing him by half an inch either way.

With Jackson as Bad Cop, he felt compelled to shift over and nod at the few JV alternatives ducking past  him out the door. Tomorrow, he’d round them up for their first two lessons in building Jackson immunity 101: 1) Never invade the guy’s privacy and 2) Never ever mess with his fucking food. Really, they should have given an Orientation.

With the bulk of them and his boner effectively gone, he threw his weight casually against the doorway, settling in for the rest of the Jackson show.

Lydia, Aiden, and the rest of their inner circle blinked between them like Jackson actually expected them to leave food, so the two of them could sit there and do god knows what.

“I don’t think you fucking heard me,” Jackson punted a tray of grapes to the carpet, earning more than a few audacious gasps. “Last time I checked, none of you shook ass for this spread so, fuck off.”

Brett, who only came around when he didn’t feel like shaking ass for some stranger, cackled by Theo’s side in the corner. “For these ribs, I’ll throw that shit back right now.” His sticky fingers glinted off muted lamp light.

“Just—” Everyone froze as he exhaled once, then twice. A meditation routine Morrell made him do when his anger threatened to exceed controllable levels. “Take it and go.”   

Fifteen seconds. Only fifteen for everyone to snatch what they desired most and retreat. Erica wrapped her sluggish, exhilarated self around his torso, pumping him tightly before Lydia pulled her away. Soon, the room was blessedly empty save for Aiden, who was dodging for the curly fries.

“Not those,” Jackson bit out, slamming a hand on the tray. Even though Stiles felt like it took a millennia, their eyes finally feasted on each other, a charged energy refracting between them. _They’re yours if you want them._

Maybe for the first time since his birth, he shrugged at the mound of fries indifferently. “I don’t want em. Take it.”

Aiden seemed to think he won some major battle, his arms raising the platter like a championship belt as he strutted out the door. Stiles couldn’t help grinning as he stepped aside, letting the door hit the twin’s calves on the way out.

“Ok, I need you to go all Hulk Smash like once a week,” he filled in the echoing silence, “But on them, not me.”

“Enjoy the show?” Jackson stayed on his half of the room with one too many pieces of budget furniture separating him and every illicit thing Stiles wanted to do to him.

“10/10, would buy tickets to the second showing if it didn’t mean having to deal with…” He gestured to the worn in couches and crumbs mottling the carpet. “…that disaster again.”

“Chances are you’ll see it again.”

“Hmm awesome,” he groaned, using the distraction to plop down into the closest chair, his head falling to gaze at the ceiling. “I also need you not all the way over there. Can you make that happen too?”

Jackson’s laugh transcended above him and he hadn’t yet gotten over the novelty of hearing it so often. “I just cleared a room for you and now I have to come to you?” His words might have protested, but his body obviously hadn’t planned on listening. Stiles settled back, watching his defiant steps towards him. He thanked Danny or Ethan or whoever again for the go-go-boy get up before Stiles worked it off him.

Finally, he reached Stiles and everything flexed as he raised a leg, settling flesh against Stiles’ thigh on the chair. He listened to his instincts before his conscious took command, running a hand up his thigh, then playing with the shredded frays of his shorts. Jackson peered down at him with a heady expression he’d hadn’t yet categorized—lidded eyes and a pouty smirk like he couldn’t understand why he wanted Stiles under him at all.  

Stiles couldn’t think of anything else besides how it’d feel to kiss it away. But, sex was one thing, a quick detached exploration of the tension knotting them together. Kissing…that he admitted turned this into something else entirely.

Heart slamming a dubstep beat, he arched up to curl around his neck and tugged Jackson even further down. “What if I want you to kiss me?” he whispered against his lips, cringing at the needy tremor of his voice.

“Fuck, I have to do that too? You really are lazy.”

Stiles nodded, licking his lips. “Hmm, let’s go with that.” Just when he thought Jackson was going to pull back with a crack about his inexperience, he felt a tentative press of lips over his. Another question like Stiles wasn’t practically begging him for it less than a second ago. Maybe, it was the uncharacteristic hesitancy in Jackson tonight or the moan that instantly punched out him him when Stiles’ tongue asked to take it deeper. Whatever it was, he gladly accepted Jackson’s control.

The craziest thing about kissing to him, was the drastic difference based on the person. Logically kissing one person should shoot the same sparks through him as kissing another.

Stiles tilted his head up for a better angle and Jackson fitted seamlessly against him, parting more on an exhale. He could honestly say kissing Heather and Caitlin paled in comparison to this. Hell, even his few drunken make out sessions with Theo, who prided himself on the wicked things he did with his tongue paled. Kissing Jackson was like walking along a tightrope, knowing one wrong move or word would send them both plummeting to awkward death, but taking their chances anyway. Obsessed with the thrill.

Jackson grappled at his shirt, rustling in a frenzy to peel the sweaty thing over his head and Stiles let him. Eventually, the room’s AC cooled against back as they both pulled it free. Jackson eye’s ran hungrily down his body, as if Stiles was the Greek God in the room.

An obsession with flipping and contorting his body in unnatural positions always kept his stomach flat, but God had never blessed him with an eight pack or anything. Only a dark dust of hair trailing toward the unruly V beneath his shorts. Blame his polish heritage. But, Jackson still ate him up, hands and thick gaze appreciating him as if he had all the time in the universe. He burned for something more, faster.

A thought developed. Stiles pushed him back and nodded to the shower, “Go wash that off.” He ran a finger down a ridge of his abdomen, the rainbow paint now smearing one solid, murky brown.

“Does it bother you?” he gripped Stiles’ hand, using it to press boldly down the length of his boner. Stiles shivered; that thing about Jackson’s self control? He took it back.

“You don’t get an after show if it’s there.“ He didn’t have to ask again, laugh bursting out of him from how fast Jackson hopped off, skittering into the bathroom with his go-go bulge constricting his walk. ”You look like a horny chimp.“

“Hoo hoo hoo hoo,” Jackson gibbered out to him over the rushing flush of the sink.

He shook his head, chuckle persistent, “Such an idiot.” Then, with a grunt, he staved away the allure of dork Jackson and collected his materials. Headphones, times two. Phone. Spotify App. Song. Chair.

“Blindfold?”

Startled, Stiles swiveled, jamming his foot into a leg of a mahogany armchair, “Really?!” he whined, clutching his foot as Jackson laughed casually at him from the bathroom doorway. It was hard to appreciate all that smooth, uncovered skin when an unmanly screech threatened to ruin the mood.

“Your fault,” Jackson tugged the black tie intertwined around Stiles’ palm, throwing it to the table, “And it’s _my_ show. No blindfold.”

 _“I can’t do this with you watching me,”_ he mocked in his best grumbly asshole voice, but it came out more Bruce Wayne than Jackson Whittemore.

“You tried it,” Jackson pushed him in the chair, lowering himself down too. He waited for the thick press of a body to blanket him again, craved it now that he’d gotten a taste of how good it felt. But, Stiles’ hands slide right up Jackson’s deliciously naked torso, fingers never given the chance to explore the same inch for too long with Jackson dropping even further. Instead, they finally laced through soft choppy hair. If he didn’t think it’d deter them from the here and now, he almost asked if Jackson skipped the gel for a reason. “Stiles, I’ve been watching you for years.” His tone was velvety and frighteningly unmasked. The little air in the room abandoned him as Stiles ogled down for a better view of him, biting his lip.

Then, a hand wrapped around his still throbbing foot, messaging lightly.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned, pleasure racing through him, barely able to catch his breath over a goddamn foot massage. He’d honestly lose his fucking mind if those hands got anywhere near his ass tonight. They definitely wouldn’t make it to the finals tomorrow.

”Technically,” Jackson rasped a kiss over his hurt toe, “The only difference now is you knowing I’m doing it.” What even was Cheerleading?

“Fine, up, up, up,” he forced them over to the only chair without arms in the room. Sequentially, he remembered slapping Jackson’s obnoxious metallic gold Beats over Jackson’s ears, but remember how his Airpods made to his own. “Just don’t laugh.”

Jackson rolled his eyes, resting his hands comfortably around Stiles’ waist. Because he could, he gave a roll of his own, melding their hips together as he scrolled through Spotify.

“Oh shit, I forgot to pair.”

Jackson immediately started laughing, thumping his head against the chair’s back.

“Shut up!” Stiles slapped his check, holding in his own snicker, “You literally said you wouldn’t laugh.”

That made him laugh harder, the sudden friction of their dicks colliding punching out the similar groans, only different in pitch, “Why can’t you just play the song?”

“I don’t want them thinking we’re in here fucking.” He gestured to the walls bordering their room, two nosy ass teammates on either side.

“They already do! You’re being difficult.”

“ _Nenene_ , _you’re being difficult,”_ he mocked, soaking up the bitchy grumble Jackson gives him in result. He will probably never understand how he could get off on simultaneously irritating and turning him on, “What do you think? Fast or slow?” He scrolled through some gracious person’s stripper playlist, every other song recognizable.

“I watch this porno sometimes.”

Stiles halted, lowering his phone in the opposite direction of his raising brows, “You have my attention.”

“Pretty cringy shit at the end, but there’s this dance that makes me think of you.” Too turned on at the vision of Jackson jerking off to the fantasy of Stiles in any situation, he willing passed his phone over. Leaning closer to observe the ease with how he navigated the Pornhub website.

“Come here often?” He teased, burying his face in the hollow curve of his neck, the night air still salty on his skin.

Jackson arched for him, “I’m an 18 year old bi dude trapped in a town of rejects and losers.”

“And me?” he pulled back, satisfied with his quickly bruising masterpiece. Lydia might kill him with her breakfast tray, but Stiles thought it was worth it.

“And you.” Jackson gripped his ass tighter, kissing him again. Too quickly they’d forgotten the video altogether, the phone going lax in Jackson’s hand as they lost themselves to the novelty of being able to openly explore each other. Jackson cock rubbing against his even harder through the suffocating fabric of the go-go shorts. Was there a protocol for getting someone out their clothes? Was he supposed to ask politely for permission to disarm?

He settled for fingering the button until Jackson got the hint. It took the both of them---Stiles lifting and tugging with Jackson shimmying---to yank them free. His mouth watered at the sight, Jackson all relaxed and exposed in from of him of all people. He really wished they could savor this moment, rather than race blindly toward some climax he knew only in 8 minute clips and other people's stories. But grinding against Jackson, snapping their hips together to the hushed beat filtering through each of their headphones. Someone more experienced might have been embarrassed over how quickly he reached the edge.

“I’m thinking you should fuck me,” he blurted as he fell back onto the carpet, ignoring the way Jackson barely glanced away from the ceiling to check if he bruised a rib.

A minute passed before Jackson shook his head, “You fly tomorrow and I gotta watch you do it.”

He groaned. Why didn’t this whole weekend just slaughter him now before it’s cock blocking did. At the risk of sounding too needy, he let the darkness join them for a bit before muttering, “After?”

“Hmm yeah, if you’re good,” his words drawn and muddy.  

“I’ll be the greatest,” he promised, whatever the greatest entailed. He started proving himself by crawling to the bathroom and grabbing a wet washcloth. It took a lot more energy to clean them off and get Jackson to respond enough to reach the closest mattress. Settling in, he shifted to his side for a better look at him without all the light coloring his gaze. Jackson blinked back, even when Stiles caught the moment he fought not to look away. Like word vomit, he couldn’t help but fuck it up, “Where were you today?”

Jackson turned away from him, his walls re-etching a tight frown over his beautiful face. With tonight burning so bright, he’d almost forgotten how bitter the chill could be. Rather than needle him like old Stiles would’ve, he kept quiet, choosing instead to count the spots of glinting moonlight on their ceiling.

“I was worried that I maybe…” he started and Stiles turned back, waiting, “You know?”

He shrugged sideways, the movement pulling back the fitted sheet under them. “I won’t until you tell me.”

His shifty eyes roamed everywhere besides where Stiles needed him to be: on the ceiling, passed him to the window, at the TV. Now, he couldn’t help the kick in his heartbeat, feeling the train-wreck before Jackson finally said on a sigh, “Forced myself on you.”  

What did that even. “Oh. Oh, you didn’t though.” Jackson thundered a ‘bitch please’ glare his way. “I was surprised yes, but I clearly wanted it.” He nodded to the tornado of clothes leading to the bed.

“That’s not how consent works so I’m...sorry.”

“You. Jackson Whittemore-" he clutched his chest, then dashed a look around for a pen and paper. They needed to memorialize this moment in pencil with hash marks to accurately represent his astonishment. "-Apologizing to me?!”

“I’m serious.” He paused, "I know I'm not the one you want like this."

"You clearly weren't paying attention five minutes ago. I'll be more memorable next time. Scout's honor." 

Jackson exuded a disgruntled anguish he didn't need words to convey. They both knew he combated fueled moments with emotions. It took everything in him to look at his open remorse head on, so out of character for everything Stiles' knew about Jackson until this point. "I accept your apology." His words lingered above their heads, waiting for a reassurance to Jackson's other concern to catch up to them. Rather than speak a confusion that ached his entire body, Stiles kissed him with the only shred of confidence left. Soft yet casual, his only way of translating: _I don't know what I'm doing, but we both want to do it._ For right now, he begged for it to be enough.


	4. Sunday

**~~ Lighting in a Bottle ~~**

A hazy number of hours later, someone slapped his cheek so hard dream Stiles cradled his cheek.

“Motherfu-” he squawked, or tried to, when a cold hand cupped his mouth. He blinked up at a blurry image of Jackson, his vision sharpening enough to see slitted eyes and a wicked gleam.  

“Will you shut up,” They both froze at the shuffling at their door. _Right_ , morning patrols. Footsteps halted at their door and Stiles relied on his death glare to portray all the ways he’d like to maim Jackson. And not in a ‘last-night-explosions’ type of way. For an honest moment, he feared the on duty Chaperone would use their master key to dissect the noise. (Of course, heathens would be drinking and smoking up at whatever ungodly hour of the morning Jackson had woken him up.) His heart hammered at the thought. Imagine having to stand next to the adults on their last day. He shivered.

After a laboring moment, the footsteps retreated in search of another pair of kids to bust.

He waited a nano-second before dragging his tongue flat across Jackson’s hand, tasting the bitter shower gel he swore by. If you liked peppercorn and mud, he supposed it wasn’t a bad thing.

“That’s not as effective as you think it is, freak.” He jerked his hand away, but Stiles noticed he didn’t wipe it off.

“I know, that’s the point.”

Jackson rolled his eyes, throwing the covers off his mattress, “And, you’re wasting time. Get up.”

His grumble landed eighty miles shy of intimidation which was the only reason Stiles sat up, his muscles still quaking from last night’s festivities. Meaning missing the last bus then having to catch the monorail to the Epcot and trekking the three miles to their hotel from there. That was the last time Jackson convinced him to leave his personal items in the room.

Jackson reappeared in red-trimmed compression shorts and nothing else. Their cross stitch outlining his morning wood, a gift that kept on giving. He leaned back on his elbows, for once unconcerned with how Jackson’s seemed to lose layers since Stiles’s last saw him mere minutes ago. Whoever invented compression shorts deserved a gift basket or twenty.

If Jackson caught him looking, he either didn’t notice or care as he barked at him to find clothes and stop wasting “both of their time.” All he needed was ten more minutes, he’d decided once Jackson disappeared again. Hopefully, with more shed layers because he’d definitely be interested in that.

Swack.

Stiles cried “Whyyyy?”

“You need the exercise.”

Morning wood successfully deflated. Throwing off the covers, he popped up and glared at his smug grin head on, “Oh you mean last night wasn’t enough?”

Jackson’s gaze emblazoned over his, a lazy perusal better served for a time when they weren’t half closed and comparing dicks. He’d certainly expected last night to change a few things, but maybe not quite as soon. The air felt too heavy for both of them to exist. Rather than brush it off, Jackson edged forward, his hand seeming to raise on its own accord before Jackson’s brain told it to stop.

“Five minutes, Stiles,” Jackson uttered, his tongue absently running over his lips, “Starting now. Don’t make me clothe you.”

“You’d enjoy it too much.”

“Damn straight.” Kicking his bed, Jackson’s hungry gaze seared down his body a final time then disappeared from the room, not even bothering to double-check for chaperones. He wanted to yell after him, but if the chaperones didn’t finish him off, Ethan certainly would later for disturbing his full eight hours of sleep.

Sluggish from last night, he slumped through the motions. A record of five minutes to shower, deodorant, brush his teeth, and find joggers. Actually snatching his wallet this time, he snuck out the door, the sun blinding him almost immediately. A quick peer left and right told him the chaperones finally retired to their rooms; still, he tiptoed past Danny and Ethan’s room and turned the corner for the piss-stale stairwell. Already, the sun heated the skin escaping his tank and he hadn’t descended from the shadows yet.

He thought the jerk left him, but he found him between the second and first floor, lounging against the wall, arms crossed, bitch face full blast. Typical Jackson stance if you asked him.

Stiles shook his head as he brushed past him. “Do you practice teenage angst?”

“It comes naturally.”

“Of course it does, loser.” But his lip tugged up with it, losing to his amusement. Common sense kept them from walking side by side as they skirted around the first level of their building, dodging past windows of the other teams cause bitches talked and their popular faces were the 8 A.M. restrictions. Once they reached the gargantuan footballs towering over the pool, Jackson settled on his right, still brusquely hustling for the main building.

His eyes wandered in the lobby, smiling at suspicious adults and rewarding them with his best Boy Scout beam. After three years, the big balls and blue walls don’t inspire awe in him, but he breathed them in with a new sense of freedom. Two hours worth.

On the rare occasion he braved the public with Jackson alone—last night notwithstanding—he’d always radiated in the extra attention proximity to Jackson gaze him. People saw Jackson, strutting with his shades, symmetrical face, and tight pants, and assumed Stiles–electrified hair, skinny limbs and all–deserved equal lust-filled gawks. Usually, he crazed that gloriously, warm feeling. Today, catching a group of surfer types eyeing Jackson, he wanted nothing more than to punch them.

Like every other time, they hadn’t won a simple glance from Jackson. Still, it hadn’t stopped him from nodding in acknowledgment, his jaw corkscrewing into a sly grin. Even better, their eyes lingered on his ass as they passed.

He forced himself not to turn around, waiting until he felt the sun before bursting into his theme song.

“Ba-dum, Ba-dum, he’s bad. He’s beast, he’ll freak you in the sheets. It’s Stiles.”

“Freak in the sheets? Okayyyyy.”

“Did you see that?” he swung in front of Jackson, ribbing him in the side.

Immune to Stiles’s charms, he snorted as he unrolled his headphones, “You being desperate? I always see that.”

“You just keep doing you, babe,” Stiles smacked his ass cheek, loving the way it smacked his hand right back. “More fish in the sea for me.”

He heard Jackson’s teeth grind together over the phantom air of Jackson attempting to swipe him back. Stiles ducked from it, sprinting in the direction toward the parks, his chuckle following after him. He braced himself for impact, paying close attention to the pounding pavement encroaching him. Except, Jackson whizzed by him, fast enough Stiles didn’t register his body until it was in front of him.

He’s a weak man. It’s the only reason he reveled in the losing position, if only to ogle what’s put in front of him. Watching him work, the effortless work of his thighs pounding on the pavement inspired a healthy dose of jealousy and something else he wouldn’t put a name to. Stiles decided the asshat’s had enough victory for one day, so he reclaimed his throne, shooting past him again.

They kept that up--one-upping each other, the loser trying to knock the winner into carefully manicured hedges as he sped past. He found himself laughing despite the odd glimpses they received from other park-goers swirling on in shuttle buses. By the time, they reached a parking lot, his shirt’s clinging to his chest and instead of showing his superiority, he matched his stride instead.

Stiles caught his ghost smile before an abyss of emotion replaced it. He tried to do the same, but endorphins loosened him and if he must admit it...he’d been having a decent time.

 He hadn’t been sure how far they’d run, but soon they halted at Epcot’s crowded entrance--the Magic Hours crowd even rowdier than the one to follow it. They didn’t official stop until they’d breeched the front gates. Others titter around the big golf-looking ball, but Stiles felt like collapsing on the ground and cuddling the cement. His dignity, on the other hand, settled for bending over, letting his knees support him.

His heart thumped faster than an EDM festival as sweat waterfalls his chest. Jackson’s no better, Stiles noticed when he peered at him, his chest heaving--in, out, in, out. And a fine chest it was, you know, if you were into that sort of thing.  

His abs outline rippled through the polyester film like he’d bought his shirts two sizes too small on purpose. Stiles couldn’t achieve that, no matter how many chin-ups Lydia forced upon him. His gaze dragged upward, despite himself, lingering on the openness he finds there. He’d be lying if he called it a smile...somehow, it’s better.

He imagined it’s probably how Jackson looked after he’s gotten a long, toe-curling fuck. Slack jaw, eyes hazy but alert, breathing too erratic to signify anything but pushing his body to the edge. Stiles ignored the tension it stirred in him, instead snapping away to stare at the big golf ball thing.

Something told him Jackson still knew.

He heard a scoff, then, “Food?”

It’s the one word to quell the unsettling energy in him. “That’s all you think about?” he snorted, keeping his eyes trained on that Golf Ball. Golf ball. Golf ball. Was it supposed to be a Golf Ball?

“Among other things.”

He knew the words were said to get a rise out of him, which is why he rolled his eyes and pushed past him. Besides, he found it far more satisfying to shoot down all the restaurants Jackson suggested, his expression souring with each country. They jerked to a stop outside the Imperial Palaces of Japan. The morning wind seemed to transfer through Jackson into him as he knocked back a few steps from the back-handed hit.

“Resulting to violence, hubby? That’s not nice,” his mouth tilted up as he rubbed his chest.

Jackson growled at him, a literal growl that grew more distinct as he stepped in his face, “Chose a fucking place.” Then, his eyes relaxed, a sly smile forming instead as if he’d reached someone conclusion about him. “Aww, can Stiles’s wallet not handle it?” Jackson’s hand raised to his face, patting his cheek, “It’s okay. I’m feeling charitable today.”

He smacked his hand away. “Screw you,” he said. Although, now that they’d brought it up, he didn’t have a trust fund to bankroll $35 dollars on toast and watery eggs again. It’s easy to forget your place in the economic stratosphere when your best friends drive luxury cars and buy clothes at regular price. Likewise, Jackson reminded him at every chance as if he earned a salary doing it. He refused to break first. Their toes almost scraped together with the lack of space between them. He could hear the angry frustration in his breathing, but that only fueled Stiles more.

Right around this time, either Lydia or Danny would force them in civility--Danny by pushing Jackson away while tossing Stiles a disappointed grimace and Lydia with commands alone.

Without them, well...he stepped even further, daring Jackson to say whatever conniving retort he’d thought about now. Silent moments passed, with only the shuffle of feet and waves of water around them. His nose caught onto the saccharine aroma of something yummy and greasy, to which his stomach gladly appreciated.

Jackson’s stomach grumbled too, in time with his petulant huff. One minute Stiles was beginning to smirk, accepting victory, and the next a sweat-slicked palm was gripping his wrist, yanking him in the opposite direction.

Tight but loose enough that Stiles could break from it, Jackson’s hold dragged him back towards carbs and Colonial America. Curious eyes followed them, but most of them only shown brief amusement back before returning to their own lives.

He didn’t want to imagine what they appeared like to the outside gaze--fearing the words “comfortable” and “young love” might make an appearance. Truth was...they might despise every atom within each other, but their bodies stole that uncomfortable boundary from them years ago. He blamed years of forced proximity.  

Closer to the waterfront, that February chill shivered through him, everywhere a prickling cold besides where Jackson collided with him. If he thought he could get away with it, he’d pull with enough force to slide his hand up, intertwining their fingers. Teammates looked out for one another like that right?

He’d all but cemented it in his mind as an exuberant, “Stiles! Stiles!” disrupted the peaceful existence the families and couples surrounding them. Together, they froze, Jackson mirroring his swivel with the exception of his free arm jerking in the air.

They find him sitting at a table inside the black gate of La Cantina, the sandy architecture of the Spanish surrounding them. If Scott wasn’t surrounded by people Stiles hated, he’d joke about the irony of him coming all the way here for Mexican food.

“Stalker, much?” Jackson released him, but Stiles snatched it back, this time firmly sealing their fingers. Scott waved at him as if they hadn’t seen one another in years and that exuberance to see him set tremors over his skin. Not once did his gaze stray left, which was rare when he stood next to someone like Jackson.

He’d been so focused on the way Scott’s hair swished with the wind, it took him seconds too long to acknowledge Allison and the Tall One. (Stiles knew his name, pretending not to always riled him up.)

When Jackson grumbled, he almost followed his tug to ignore them. But, last night’s guilt radiated through him coupled with Scott’s elation to see him despite everything they’d said last night. He grips tighter to Jackson’s hand, drifting closer and closer until they reached the black gate, separating them and Scott.

“Morning bud,” he offered his fist, forcing a grin as Scott gladly bumps it back. “Allison, Tall One.” They sour tandemly at the sight of them, Jackson especially. Feelings mutual, he thought, subconsciously stepping closer to the asshole next to him.

“It’s Isaac,” The Tall One raised an unimpressed brow at the two of them, nibbling at a chip in his oversized scarf and peacoat. Usually, Stiles would poke the shit out of him, but only one of them was freezing their balls off.

“Is it?” he beamed back,  “How are you three this cheertastic morning?” Lydia’s favorite phrase felt weird coming from his mouth; Jackson showed his first sign of cognition with a chortle.

“Cheertastic?” Scott tilted his head, laughing with complete oblivion to the disdainful looks his girlfriend and friend were sending them. “I haven’t heard that in forever,” he gave a little sigh. “Yo, wasn’t last night awesome! Where’d you run off too?”  

A painful stab flushed over him, knowing good well where they ended up. Logically, he knew Scott meant last night as in the block party and not in his room ass arched over an armchair while a canal of lemonade slid down his spine for Jackson’s kinky pleasure. Next to him, Jackson immediately started smirking, almost like the thought flew between them. A casual response fought him every inch into the air, “Yeah, sorry. We meant to hang around.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe that,” Allison spoke for the first time, leaning both elbows on the table to wink at their hands...that he forgot were entangled.

He could never say Jackson didn’t hold to his word. In one move, he let go, only to wrap the same arm around Stiles’s neck, bringing him closer. Feeling his breath circuit over his neck, Stiles tilted away, offering him more only because this was a show, nothing more. His nose swept over Stiles’ pulse point long enough to make them uncomfortable watching them, but short enough as to feel natural. And, it bothered him that it did.  

“You know how it is,” Jackson said, sparing her barely more than a glimpse. “Can we hurry this up? I’m hungry.”

Stiles cackled, “Aren’t you always? Be a good boy and get me some orange juice.” He pushed him toward the restaurant’s opening, spurting even harder at the daggers of death Jackson shot him.

His words reverberated in a grit, “We’re not eating here.”

“Cause fifteen dollar pastries are so much better?”

They sniped back and forth, unbeknownst to the open expressions his friend and slated enemies gazed upon them until he glanced over, Allison with her doubt in their fake relationship, Isaac with his repulsion, and best of all, Scott’s simmering anger. Like he still couldn’t believe Stiles would chose Jackson, their childhood nemesis, of all people. Dare he even detect a hint of jealous in there; he mentally high-fived himself.

“I should get this one fed before he eats a character. Better them than me, am I right?” He tugged on the closest thing near him, the edge of Isaac’s scarf.

“You sure?” Allison asked cheekily.

Stiles tampered down on the flush setting through his cheeks, praying the brisk would cool his blood as he winked her way. “Ooh true. With that tongue? Careful what I wish for.”

“You won’t be wishing for anything in a minute,” Jackson grumbled loud enough for all them to hear. That was the best he got? Stiles snorted; he was perhaps enjoying this too much. Stuffing his hand in Jackson’s pocket, he nodded at the three of them, figuring they’d let this play out long enough. He still slept two feet away from this asshole.

Scott cleared his throat, bringing them all to attention, with the exception of Jackson who purposefully checked his phone. “What time are you on today?” He managed to sound not spiteful and Stiles both applauded and villain cackled him for it.

“Three but knowing Lyds, she’ll make us take notes on the competition.”

“Five pages, 12pt, Calibri, single-spaced, no cover page.” Jackson added and this time when Stiles laughed, it wasn’t forced. He spied Allison’s confusing tilt, seemingly no longer doubting their newly-lamented couple-ship. Instead, her eyes judged them for being dysfunctional, which she’s actually right about for once.

“Wanna do something later?” Scott ignored Jackson, focusing on him alone. “We don’t leave until tomorrow.” He could tell by Allison’s pout they’d already cemented plans for later. Knowing Scott bypassed them for alone time with him sent a pleasurable shrill down his spine. They could ride _Rock and Rollercoaster_ until Scott puked (because he always did) and Jackson memorialized it on live. They could slap down fake ids and make Jackson buy them tequila shots and fruity umbrella drinks while fireworks commemorated the weekend’s end.

 _Yeah,_ that sounded like an evening he could get behind and...technically already had. Minus alcohol since _a certain_ _someone_ stopped drinking during championship seasons. Of course, for Jackson, Prince of Year-round Sports, every season was one of his championship season.

A beginnings of a nod tilted his head when Allison leaned over, whispering in Scott’s ear. He waited, front row seat, as her words brought the reddest tinge creeping up his neck and settling over his ears. He’d never seen someone with such tan skin blush so fiercely.

_“Jackson... uh, you too. If you want?”_

“No,” Jackson said pointedly. Stiles ribbed him in the side, forcing Jackson to look at him. He argued with him nonverbally--Jackson’s eyes slitting combating with his perfect pout. He was not being roped into a Scott-Allison date night by himself. The pout shifted into a beg, his bottom lip stuck out as he feathered his thumb along the inside of Jackson’s pocket, thin fabric the only barrier between him and thigh. Jackson didn’t react, but his muscle jumped under Stiles’s touch. “Fine,” he resigned a dramatic sigh, “Whatever.”

“Cool.” Scott’s smile stretched thin, “Text you later?”

“You betta.” Stiles winked at them, fluffed the tall one’s hair and strolled away pulling Jackson by the shorts with him.

They rounded into the gloomy, dark castles of the Norway district before Stiles turned him loose.

“If you think I’m enduring another minute of that dimwit’s personality, you...”

Stiles cupped a hand over his loud mouth, squeaking when Jackson bit the meat of his pointer finger, “— said we we’re magic together. Can’t get rid of that now.” And, that was fact. For whatever reason, those lovable idiots actually believed he was in a legit, questionably healthy relationship with Jackson Whittemore. Hell, he was starting to believe it himself. Jackson might not have been referring to this fact when he pressed his body slack against Stiles, but the sentiment still remained. “Come on, I owe you breakfast.”

Swearing at him, Jackson shoved him into someone’s shuffling grandma, “Like you could afford it.”

“Choose something cheap and you’ll get brunch back at the hotel.”

Two seconds. Shock cemented Jackson’s already unmovable feet to the ground, his eyes for once an unmasked question. A question Stiles hadn’t had the opportunity to confirm. One minute they were at Jackson’s French pastry restaurant, the next Jackson had practically carried him back to Happy Trio’s plebeian joint. Ignoring them hadn’t seem the challenge he thought it once would be.

“Two orange juices. Two breakfast burritos,” Jackson barked to their chipper hostess. She pressed buttons with haste,  “Stiles, pay the woman.”

He couldn’t hear a damn thing over his ears reflecting a laugh too similar to his own.

* * *

****~~ It’s Gotta Be You  ~~** **

Standing left of center stage, in line formation as their team and 4 others awaited the final tally, Stiles could honestly declare he’d never been more sweaty in his life than this moment. (Which said something, considering his once-abysmal social life now included 200% more physical activity than it had before this weekend.)

The bare thought of Jackson, who had poured a vat of filth over every innocent touch and lift during their performance, made Stiles ache to turn around. He could still feel Jackson’s heat at his back, scorching an already hot, panting situation. Almost like the asshole forced the team’s entire second line up three inches, so Stiles’ wouldn’t forget the sensation.

 _Only one tiny peek_ , he bartered with  himself. A peek to experience what Stiles suspected was an ungodly marriage of dripping, skin-tight fabric and intensified muscle definition. After giving Lydia seven trick flips, he deserved at least that with promise of more to come. Traitorously, she wouldn’t agree with any move that ruined her gold-winning, picturesque formation. In the past, he’d always survived under the knowledge that her desire came before all else.

 _Yeahhh_...Stiles couldn’t give two fucks about anyone else’s desire besides Jackson failing not to writhe under him, his salty glare begging Stiles for more. (Besides, by an extension, his own.)

“Accumulating a total of 320 points, the 51st annual NCDA Cheerleading Championships is proud to award the Third Place Bronze trophy to…”

The overly-enthusiastic judge yelled some team’s name, but Stiles was too busy riding their accomplishment to get his look. Raucous cheering refracted off the amphitheater’s tarps as he rotated his head the tiniest degree left.

Unusually close, his eyes didn’t have their full opportunity, landing on the inner edge Jackson’s clavicle. Many props to the sun’s rays, ruddy crimson illuminated the bruise Lydia tried her hardest to cover.

 _I did that,_ he mentally high-fived himself than paused. Technically, it was more like, _I DID That!_ A sharp pinch rattled his ass, drawing a _eep_ out of him before he could reel it in. All at once, Danny and Ethan snickered as Jackson leant even closer, “Can’t keep it in your pants for a few hours?”

He jabbed an elbow back, colliding with hard abs, “Not when it’s been there 18 years.”

Lydia, who he was surprised lasted this long, snapped her prize-winning smile to their right, “Shut the hell up or neither of you will have an _it_ to keep.”

Jackson clicked his teeth as he crept closer into the space between Lydia’s and his heads. “Ooo Fiesty,”

She broke character to actually look to the heavens. “Christ, they’re one person now.”

“To be fair, he started it.” Stiles really wished he had full use of his hands. They’d be flying high, absolving him of all crimes and guilt. “Actually, _you_ started it making us partners.”

Jackson’s eyes smouldered in the gravity between them, _I don’t see you complaining._ Stiles smouldered back, not really offering a response but an argument nonetheless. They actually tried to behave once the third place team shuffled back to their section of the stage.

“Congratulations again, Bobcats!” Everyone applauded for third place and Stiles wondered when they started celebrating mediocrity around here. The judge spewed more spirited anecdotes from his years on this stage. He didn’t truly zone back in until Scott and the other Broncos were racing toward the front. “Give it up for the East Lake Broncos!”

“Holy shit, holy shit, we won!” he whispered quietly. Lydia giggled under his tickling headgrip, both of them failing to control themselves long enough to give Scott and the other Broncos the spotlight their routine rightly deserved. Their second place routine, according to five professional judges, who last year decided the same thing of them.

The crowd settled down and let the man introduce their win as a formality. “And, now for our first place winners. Amassing over a total of 410 points, including the largest gainers in the freestyle category, the 51st annual NCDA Cheerleading Championships is proud to award the First Place Gold trophy to…”

A tribal drum roll struck the amphitheater, “the Beacon Hills Cyclones!”

Even knowing the man would declare it, he stood their dumb-struck by the realization. Around him, his team burst into celebration: Lydia, Erica, and Kira screeching up and down their ponytails flying. The twins doing their fear-me-thunder war cry, squawks and all. Danny grinning good-naturedly, clapping people on the back like it was his job as a genuine human. Jackson, somehow in all the chaos, managed to get swarmed in the back with the other tribal-bros, but he flicked his head in acknowledgment as Stiles sought him out, the tiniest grin brightening his normally catty disposition.

He toyed briefly with going over there and kissing the hell out of him, setting off a round of gasps, catcalls, and whistles like the ending to every Bring It On movie produced.

Naturally, Lydia put a halt to it, yanking him and Erica by the shoulders to centerstage, the rest of the group following her lead. Sandwiched in between two pushy females, he released his plan back into the wild. Especially considering the lights flashing intermittently from impossible directions.

He felt a century passed of “ok, everyone look this way” and “Now, wait-wait, this one over here.” Adults he’d never seen in his life with their professional Nikons and proud glimmers. Stiles was really to grab their trophy and high-tail it to the nearest restaurant, preferably one with an all you can eat buffet.

He’d started for backstage when Lydia dragged him back to her side, “Wait, the spirit awards.”

“Ew, since when do we stay for those.”

A nearby photographer scowled his way reproachfully.

“Since we won and need to show spirit.”

He supposed, but they technically always landed in either first or runner-up, second only to the Broncos, who also never stayed for the individual awards. In his experience, the division always awarded the lesser awards to lesser teams: Most Creative, Most Spirit, Best Uniforms, and on and on. All of them coined after the cheerleaders or teams who embodied the concept first.

To Stiles, none of them mattered beside perhaps the Anderson-Newman Award for Best Routine Partners and the Taylor Award for Strongest Team Captain. Now, those three people he regularly envied, what with the $4,000 scholarship toward any school of your choice AND the option to spread it out over 4 years.

Too bad, nothing about any of them screamed, ‘I’m wholesome enough to win an award for it.’ And even if they were, the whole ‘People’s-Choice’ component usually knocked them out the running.

Stiles clapped obligatorily as gracious smiles accepted tiny plaques, he’d a hundy on unpersonalized. Then, the man commenced his poetic waxing again, more gibberish about teamwork and support. Oh, the trust needed to believe someone (or ones on smaller teams) will catch your 100+ lbs body midair. (One hundred and sixty-two in his case.) And the communication the two of you needed to learn to function as one. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

He sought Jackson behind him, wondering where he landed once their team settled down.

“Holy shit, Stiles--” More jabbing.

“Whaa whaa, I’m listening.”

Another jab, “Obviously not, he called your name.”

He snapped away from Jackson and toward Lydia, her smile as genuine as he’d ever seen it. “What!?”

“You and Jackson’s!”

She was only fucking with him. These people would never vote for them with all their incessant arguments and sneers. Sure enough, Stiles shifted to the stage at the same time Mr. Teamwork Hard-On cleared his throat. “Jackson Whittemore and Mieczy...Myzey...Oh, thank goodness, I’m told he goes by Stiles Stilinski of the Beacon Hills Cyclones! Are they still here?”

“Oh fuck,” Dumbstruck, he tried to hide himself behind the team in front of them. No thanks to Erica and Lydia, prodding and poking him in the sides until he squirmed up and away from them. At the back, Danny and the twins were doing the same, making them literally the only two standing in a sea of clapping bodies.

_“Give us another show!”_

_“Boy got hips for dayssss!!”_

_“Gratatata me daddies!”_

More suggestive comments flew at them as they body gravitated toward the stage.

Stiles knew at this point, with the heat taking over his face, they might as well slap a Sell by date on him and throw him in a Lobster tank. Jackson met him in the middle and judging by his scrunched anguish, he was taking this victory about as well as him.

“ _Encore! Encore! Encore!”_ One half of their compadres chanted, much to the grinning confusion of their coaches and chaperones.

The other half throwing them a more muted, _“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”_

Never one to back down for a challenge, Jackson went in for the broke, wrapping a loose hand around his upper back, at least two square inches separating them. Stiles thanked the heavens for it. Their fans went wild.

“Horndogs, _amirite_?!” he mocked a whisper into the curve of Jackson’s ear, causing more than a few roars despite the innocent embrace. He could be reciting the Constitution and their horny asses wouldn’t know a thing. The airy timber of Jackson’s laugh wafted like elegant perfume around him, all together too much to handle in addition to his hidden hand brushing beneath the fabric of his shorts.

“Too bad we didn’t make t-shirts.”

His shoulders quaked, “You would do that, wouldn’t you?”

Their friend, Mr.MC-Man, implanted massive checks for 4 thousand dollars each with their names on it and gestured toward the order of cameras.

Jackson bantered back through the frozen grips of his award-winning smile, “Should’ve seen us last night.” He paused, a particular memory seeming to return to him and added, “And most of today.”

Oh how he’d wish he could Magic-School-Bus-Miss-Frizzle his way into Jackson’s brain right now, rolling around in all the filthy thoughts he tried his hardest not to think about himself.

For their own sake, he thought it’d be best if he didn’t get to respond until after they shuffled them aside for the Taylor award recipient. “How do you think we got on this stage?”

Jackson canted his head as if to give him a _‘touche._ ’ A comfortable silence settled in a way that should terrify him, but didn’t. Forty-eight hours ago, both of them were struggling to fill their silence with something other than insults and now,  

“Look--” Jackson blurted randomly, carrying his voice barely above the applause for this years’ Taylor award, someone Stiles didn’t know or care to know.

He’d rather look, so he did.

“You’re probably still obsessed with McCall, but if you want to make us real...” His nose scrunched up, smelling that rancid milk again, “...itswhatevertome.”

“It’s whatever?” Such typical Whittemore bullshit. He bopped him on the head with 4,000 dollars worth of foam, “Let’s use our big boy words, Jackson.”

“I. Want. To. Be. With. You,” he sneered, “See, my little boy words work just fine, Dickhead.”

“Geez, you don’t have to be so rude about it. Now, I’m reconsidering everything.” He tsks, but the amusement painting his smile was harder to mask than he thought.

“Uh huh and it has _nothing_ to do with that nauseating ball of sunshine.” Jackson thundered to the casual shrug of his shoulders.

The ceremony wrapped up, opening them up to a flock of fanboy and girls who knew everything about them and yet, nothing at all. “I’ll let you know,” he winked, backing away into the foray of their fanclub.

* * *

 

**~~ Way Back Home ~~**

Dating Jackson Whittemore. What would that look like? He couldn’t help imagining it the entire walk to the Broncos’ mansion. Would they scream at each other over the littlest problems, voices constantly ragged from overuse? Or would they go on dates, hold hands and kiss in public? Would they bring each other surprise treats during study breaks and homemade soup (store-bought for Jackson) when one of them was sick?

He had a better chance of envisioning himself dating Ansel Elgort or Alexandra Daddario before he could picture Jackson doing mundane favors for him out of love rather than spite. And, that didn’t address Operation: Marry-Scott-McCall, which if he admitted hadn’t crossed his mind once since Magic Kingdom.

He talked himself into a scenario frenzy by the time his feet reached the private community where the Broncos stayed. Palm trees sang hello to him as he passed Villa after Villa, whistling louder the further he walked.

When he crunched down on the Hale family’s manicured lawn, he felt no closer to making sense of it all. The door opened within seconds to Mr.Tall, Brooding, and Silent.

“He-y Derek,” Stiles cracked, cringing at his disjointed wave. If four years of pseudo-knowing the Broncos taught him anything, it didn’t include how to pull more than a straight face out of Derek Hale. Shuffling his weight from left to right, he fought the temptation to bounce his anxiety away. “Wicked Arabian earlier. Gotta teach me that some time.”

Derek blinked at him blandly then pivoted away, “Scott!” He walked away without a backward glance, leaving him alone with the few people strewn across immaculate leather couches, a game of ‘What Do You Meme’ and enough snacks to feed a Girl Scouts troop spread out on the table in front of them. Other than Isaac they all appeared vaguely familiar.

Heavy footsteps broke into the room. “Heyyy champion!” Scott wrapped him in a bear hug like they hadn’t seen one another a few hours ago. It felt natural to fall into it like he always had. “Thought we were meeting up later?”

 “Plans changed?”A flash of embarrassment whirled through him as every eye shifted disapprovingly upon him now that they’d realized he’d showed up uninvited.

Even with his smile blinding and strong, Scott’s eyes clouded a somber gray. “No worries, Allison met up with Lydia anyway. Pool’s empty.”

“Ok cool.”

When he didn’t jump into action, Scott gripped his hand and tugged, “Come on. You can borrow Isaac’s trunks.”

“No he can’t!” Isaac yelled after them.

Scott’s laugh drifted behind them, filling every corner of the massive room, “Stingy! You have like five and it’s already happening!”

In the room he and Isaac shared, Scott rummaged through a haphazardly thrown duffel and yanked out clothes until he reached the bottom. Truthfully, the thought of his junk suffocating under the same material as Isaac’s didn’t induce happy shivers either. His shorts and boxers were already on the ground, trunks halfway up his thighs when he realized...he was naked in a room with Scott.

He shifted to see Scott lounging across his Harry Potter themed comforter and when their eyes met, Scott gaze him a half lifted smile before returning to his phone. Dream Stiles conjured dropped jaws and heavy eyes, licking lips and swallowing throats. Clothes that burned to the carpet and heated hands that were quick to replace them. A charged voltage suffocating them until they gave in.

“Ready?” His buddy jumped up, tossing his phone on the bed without a second care.

Tightening the drawstring, Stiles pocketed his just in case and followed him out. A tide of bittersweet stayed behind them as they left. They were wading on twin flamingo inflatables when two guys in khaki shorts burst through the sliding doors, similar in almost every regard beside the shade of their skin and texture of their hair. They ribbed each other, jostling each other back and forth with that air of youthfulness that suggested Sophomores, if not Freshman.

“Scotttt,” The one on the left interrupted first, his wispy bangs falling in his face as he stuffed fidgety palms down his khaki pockets, “Derek says we gotta ask you if we can leave the house.” He noticed the question was less of a question and more of a statement.  “What’s up, Soul-Dude?”

“Soul...Dude?” He teased, flipping between Scott and two comically, goofy looking greenies for an explanation.

“We’re not allowed to call you Soulmate,” the other one said, his earring glinting off the pool’s reflection, “I’m Mason. And that’s Liam,” he pointed to his friend, the guy flicking a tight nod at him in response. “We’re his children.”

He didn’t know what part of that to focus on: the children moniker, the Soul-Dude, the tight lipped smile Scott’s attempting to give them despite the threat in his gaze, “So many follow-up questions. Children?”

“It’s some mess Laura started when she took over coaching,” Scott finally seemed to have found his voice, a strange mixture of tipsy elation and frantic caution. His head lolled as he looked from his kids to Stiles. “Every senior is responsible ‘for nurturing the academic and skill development of three underclassman’. They’re mine.”

“--Plus my boyfriend Corey.,” Mason added. Watching his entire face spark alive, he couldn’t help the tinge of envy, wondering if he’d ever felt that way about anyone. When was the last time he smiled with his whole body? “Speaking of boyfriends…” Mason jumped in and he froze. _Please don’t ask about mine. Please don’t ask about mine._ “The Musclely dude on your team with the sinister smile--”

Stiles immediately felt air return to him, though the same couldn’t be said of Liam, his face shriveling to the punctured side of a lemon “Mason, what are you doing, nooo-”

They hissed to each other quite a bit, long enough for tipsy Scott to noticed, but quick enough to pass within a few prolonged seconds. Something about Liam’s girlfriend leaving the town and flight attendants. Eventually, Mason spoke over his friend, “So, boyfriends. Evil Muscles, is he in the market for one?”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific,” Stiles said with a light chuckle, “They’re like five guys on my team with that description.”

Surprisingly, it was Liam who took over, “Football build, 3 o’clock shadow, always leering at me from some corner.”

Stiles could have stopped him after the first clue. But the powdery little redness on his cheeks? What could he say, he was a slut for other people’s embarrassment. “That’s Theo and the only thing he’s shopping for is chaos.”

The kid’s brows furrowed and Stiles couldn’t tell if that knowledge made him more interested or less. “Meaning?”

Stiles relaxed back against his flamingo float. “Run.”

“He doesn’t scare me.” His back straightened, shoulders puffing out like he needed to convince Stiles of that fact.

“He’s not supposed to, that’s the problem. I think he and Brett are crashing the afterparty. Go and see for yourself.”

“Maybe I will,” Liam grunted and with a final thunderous snarl, he pivoted on his heels and stalked back into the house. Mason grinned an apology on his behalf, then followed after him.  

 _“Phew,”_  he snapped his teeth, “The rebellious streak on that one.”

Scott groaned somewhere behind him, somehow managing to float several feet from him, “Don’t remind me. At least this time I don’t have to worry about him getting some love-struck girl pregnant.”

“That was a legitimate concern?”

“He and Hayden? A hurricane waiting to happen. A lot like you and Jackson, actually.”

“Ehhhh,” A physical cringe took over again and at a time when he’d forgotten about the asshole so effortlessly. “We shall have no mention of Jackson in this pool.” Silence fell over the backyard, save for the spray of water careening from the various colorful waterslides and fountains dotting around the perimeter. Scott humored him for as long as his curiosity lasted, swimming in circles around him until finally, he hoisted himself up against the pool wall.  

“So that’s why you’re here early and alone. Figured something went wrong.”

Stiles blinked up at their cloudless sky, “I can’t want to see my best friend in the whole universe?”

“Bro,” Scott’s voice thickened to a seriousness they reserved for family drama and interventions, “You’ve been ghosting me for him all weekend.”

“No way,” he sputtered almost falling off thin plastic from the rapid motion. The weekend replayed in his head like a bad movie he couldn’t unsee. Jackson and him at breakfast. Then, them messing around at practice and competition. Then there was Magic Kingdom and the whole dance-off/lap dance situation. The run and breakfast after that. He could have sworn he and Scott hung out after that, right? Another flash of Jackson draped over him, blanketing him into Stiles’s mattress, the sheets still stiff from the night before, both of them the kind of sweaty he still couldn’t believe he didn’t mind. “Damnn,” he racked a quaking hand through his hair, a result shower of water falling into his eyes, “I suck, sorry.”

“No, it’s honestly okay.” Scott reached out, dropping a hand on his calf. _Again nothing,_ “I’m super happy for you.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel less like a dick.”

“I mean-” Scott’s head flipped back and forth as if weighing the degree to his next lie, “Ok, so it’s like--at first, I was concerned because it’s Jackson, you know? You spent so much time complaining about how he bullied you, but I’ve been noticing for a while, you don’t talk about him like that anymore. Now, it’s like…”

“You better not be referring to the whole blowjob in public thing because that was _not_ me.”

Scott burst into laughter, his torso collapsing behind him from losing his grip on the slippery surface, “I knew it! You’re too shy to share that kind of thing.”

He gasped, affronted. “What?! I am not--” A laboring energy crackled between them, exploding laughter within them almost instantly, “Fine, I’d rather die in a pool of my own fecal.”

It took Scott sometime to settle down and even when his gut-clenching laughter abated to a mute snicker long enough for them to continue, one look at Stiles’ sour scrunch fired him up again.

He sighed dramatically, “Are you done?”

“I’m just saying-” Scott barely managed, “Things are different between you two and it’s shockingly, like truly shockingly, a good thing.”

He pushed off the pool’s wall, using the momentum to swirl him and his flamingo until their world around them blurred to caribbean blue, primary colors, and the occasional deeply tanned skin. Abruptly, his fists anchored him into the water with the feeling like he was about to explode. “It’s fucked up is what it is. The only reason I even did this was so you and I would be together, and he ruined it with his big ass mouth and washboard abs. Oh god, Scotty, his _absss_.” He powered over the groan that escaped, too fired up to wonder if Scott would too. “He shouldn’t even have them; all he does is eat shit all day long and no, that’s not an rimming joke, he literally eats like a frat bro during finals. It’s obscene.” Great, now fantasies of Jackson deep-throating Churros and Popsicles were attacking his mind.

At this point, the cringe was going to kill him before his quickening case of blue balls did. It pissed him off even further knowing Jackson didn’t have to make an appearance to steal arise out of him, while Scott had been and still was less than a foot away from his dick and yet...nothing.

Scott. Select words from his vomited speech floated back to him. “ _Oh no.”_

He draped his arms tight over his eyes, shielding him from the world.

Fifteen words.

 _The only reason I even did this was so you and I would be together_.

Only fifteen to effectively ruin their relationship. He’d been talking so fast, more of an internal dialogue than anything else, especially considering the voice in his head usually responded in a tone that perfectfully mirrored Scott’s anyway. He never really knew what to expect from Scott once they left the safety zone, smiles and teasing banter. Of course, they’d survived a fair share of heart to hearts: Scott’s parents divorce, his dad abandoning them for too many years to count, or his mom’s passing and his dad’s subsequent spiral. Those were outer explosions, nothing that threatened the strength of their bond internally. Until now.

He cursed the overwhelming urge to cry.

“Stiles,” His whisper intone barely above the crushing weight of the waterfalls, “I already knew.”

Stunned, one arm lowered itself even though his gaze was still incapable of landing on his friend for too long. “You did?”

“You’re pretty chatty when you dream.”

His jaw dropped, voice shaky. “Noooooo.”

“Oh yesss,” Scott offered him a little tucked smile, equal parts embarrassed and cute. “I have a recording somewhere of you pronouncing me Scott Stilinski. I think it’ll go perfectly with my Best Man speech. Jackson might even _give me_ a present.”

Tears loosed down his cheeks as a shocked laughter quaked through him. “He would be sooo bitchy the rest of the night.”

“I definitely wouldn’t get my parking validated.”

“No, probably not.” They chuckle together softly. Then silence lingered. Stiles plopped down into the water and swam to the wall, hoisting himself up until their legs dangle over together. Tile sizzled his thighs as he worked out what to say next, “Listen--”

“No. Me first,” Scott interrupted.

They both simultaneously shifted to face each other, their knees accidentally kissing to the cat calls occurring on the other side of the glass. It pained him, especially given their audience, but he gestured for Scott to go first. If he needed to pack his metaphorical bags, he wanted to know now before he bothered with the sob speech.

Nodding, he forced himself not to look at Scott’s forehead or his tilted jawline. “I hope you know I love you, man. Like there’s no one else I would save from a break-a-way train.”

“Allison? Your mom? Your abuela?”

He smacked Stiles’ wet thigh, drawing a high-pitched yelp. “Stop ruining this for me. I’m trying to tell you that no matter what happens, you’ll always be important to me. I know we’re older now and it’s more complicated than that, but I could never hate you for your feelings, cause they’re yours...if you still had them that is.”

Hands down, it was easily one of the most honest, intimate moments of his life, only second to Jackson’s quiet admissions last night. He couldn’t help but closing his eyes shut and inhaling through the emotion. When he released them, he hated the tears that fell dribbled down too.

Scott didn’t laugh or point to his wet cheeks, instead grinning patiently while Stiles pulled himself together. The light breeze helped him gather himself enough to shake his head.

Scott gasped falsely, “Over me already?! I’m insulted.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Nah, that would be the newest desire of your affection.”

Stiles sprung up prepared to retaliate, but Scott popped up, jumping into the deep end. He resurfaced to the sound of his own cackles. _So full of himself._ “I honestly don’t know what I saw in you.”

“Me either, kid.” Scott teased, splashing a tidal wave of pool water on him. “I’m so far from your type it’s absurd.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Oh come on, Theo, Caitlin, Heather, _JACKSON._ You’d get so bored running all over me.”

He actually thought about it, how much Scott’s amenability irated him. Who didn’t have a preference about pizza?! Even when he suggested anchovies and pineapple to get a rise of him, Scott would shrug and say, ‘Always try everything once, right?’

“Maybe.”

“Hell,” he leaned around him, getting a good look at their growing audience inside, “if the Jackson thing doesn’t work out, I’ll hook you up with Malia or Cora, maybe even Derek, technically Isaac too. Honestly, any Hale you want. You’ll really be in love then.”

Oh, how quickly they’d slid into the wingman portion of their friendship. “Let’s see if I survive this one first before we talk contingency plans.”

“Offer ‘s still there.”

“Thanks,” he held out his fist for Scott to bump, “For everything. And me too about all that stuff before.”

“I know, dude.” They beamed at each other seconds too long. After today, he couldn’t say where they’d be geographically in the world or if they would still talk daily. They might drift like most high school relationships did, connected only by the nostalgia of teenage memories. Overwhelmed with affection and respect for this mature force Scott had blossomed into while he was busy falsely pining, he couldn’t bring himself to fret over it now.

Out of nowhere, five distinct voices yelled, “Cannnonnnnballlll!” and water exploded around them, a hurricane of jovial merth.

“Name of the game’s volleyball.” A brusque girl he’d only seen in passing commanded from the side of the pool, she and Isaac clipping their net into place.

Scott slapped his hands wetly against the surface, “I call Stiles’ team!”

“We know!!” Five exasperated voices rang up, the eye rolls apparent in their screams. All the time he’d ended up in this place over the years, he wished he’d spent less time hating them for stealing Scott and more time making lasting memories.

* * *

 

**~~ Revival ~~**

The sun fell before they knew it and his own friends’ innocuous messages and calls soon followed after that. Stiles imagined they’d already managed to check out of the hotel and load the bus while he indulged himself in meaningless games and grilled meats with former strangers.

His mouth didn’t know how to form a goodbye to what had swiftly felt like the end of an era. Then, while Derek once again failed at life and charades, a final text settled in.

_Might let Brett sit with me if you keep me waiting any longer_

Stiles didn’t hesitate in his response, **< < you wouldn’t dare **

Some time passed, not much considering the group was still trying to guess Derek’s pathetic Bohemian Rhapsody. How someone so...bland kept picking the most whimsical cards escaped him. Actually, shock wouldn’t overtake him if Isaac and Cora had rigged the cards without them looking.

A picture flew in of Brett with his slithery body and grabby hands wrapped around Jackson in one of those gaudy Mickey Mouse lobby chairs. The two of them smoldering at the camera with their dual hollowed cheekbones and model-defined jawlines. He popped up so suddenly, blood rushed up to his brain instead of flowing down.

“Bohemian Rhapsody!” he jumped up, stepping over relaxed bodies to find his drying clothes. “It’s been fun, see you guys probably never. Derek, Scott’s borrowing your mom Toyota. Scotty, we’re leaving _now_.”

“Geez, so bossy.” Isaac muttered, his amused grimace not wanting to admit Stiles thoroughly charmed him with witty banter and useless trivia. He flipped them all off on his way out the door. Thanks to Scott’s haste and slightly-illegal tendency to push through yellow lights, they screeched to a stop outside the hotel within five minutes, inches from another team’s coach bus.

He burst for the door. “Hey, hey I’m here!”  

Lydia glanced over from her own Minnie throne, legs perched over the sides. He supposed she and Allison parted some time between earlier this afternoon and now, which explained why she’d already knotted her hair in a messy bun and thrown on the soffe shorts and championship shirt. “Why’d you rush? We couldn’t actually leave you.”

He buckled over, panting, “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

“I’d never leave you anywhere, my little Anderson-Newman Scholar.” She patted his cheeks, smiling warmly.

“You only want me because I make you look good,” Stiles preened back, scanning the lobby of mismatched duffels and limbs for the only person he cared about right now. Goofy chair: Danny and Ethan. Donald Duck chair: Aiden. Daisy chair: Erica. Mickey chair: Garrett and Tracy.

Neither Brett nor Jackson in sight.

His questioning pout fell back on Danny when he came up short. “Your guess is as good as mine. He was just here.”

Clearly, he was destined to chase after people his whole life, always seeking, never found. Stiles squared his shoulders, playing off his nonchalance with a shrug. He hung back once everyone started taking their bags to the minibus. Stiles knew he ought to grab his from the room before their cleaners mistook it for leftover trash. He’d made it as far as the hallway when the elevator doors parted.

“Damn, that desperate huh?”

Stiles snapped his gaze from aging carpet to Jackson standing in front of him, his mouth skewing up in a crooked smile. Stiles’s bag dangling at his side.

“Don’t fucking do that.” He burst forward, knocking a hand against his shoulder. The momentum slammed him back into the elevator’s crevice and before the doors could consider closing, Jackson snatched him into the open enclosure.   

Stiles kissed him, surprised when it came across light and soft. Since they’d started this, it’d been all rushed and frantic, even most of this afternoon.

“Since we’re doing this officially...” he boldly ran his thumb beneath Jackson’s shirt, finally caressing the barely existent fuzz his dreams were starting to fixate on. Thank god they were both going to college on academic scholarships because he’d cut a bitch if swimming season took this away from him again. Jackson leaned into him as far as his inhibition would allow him, his breathing heavier considering the amount of teammates one metal wall away from them. “Do I get to touch you now?”

His incredulous chuckle, a soft surprise of a laugh, was his response. And somehow, despite both of them being talkers, that was all the answer he needed. That heaviness returned, pooling too hard in the gut of his stomach for them to have too many witnesses. He knew logically they couldn’t survive this trip, let alone graduate without the others knowing. Not with how badly Stiles craved to touch him, now growing more insistently by the day. Soon, he’d doubt a time of day would come when his fingers weren’t pulling Jackson to him.

“Surprised you came alone. Where’s McCall?”

“Probably back at Villa Hale by now. It’s your fault I didn’t get my goodbyes.”

“If you let me sleep on the way home, I’ll make it up to you.”

“You better. We hit a lot of milestones today and I want to celebrate.”

Jackson reared back always he expecting the worse, “You and me? Or you and him?”

“I’m sure you’re dying to know,” he flipped back with a smile, glancing around only a second before pulling Jackson even closer. “Seriously though, if we’re putting nicknames back on the table too, I’d like to discuss your daddy kink cause my body can’t handle that in the middle of thanksgiving dinner with our actually fathers.”

“That was one dare in _sixth grade._ I didn’t even know what it meant back then.” Jackson looked more like him than ever, throwing his body back in exasperation, wandering hands falling from the edges of Stiles’ waist.  

“Okay sureee, Mr. Urban Dictionary.”

“I’m not doing this with you tonight.” The doors parted ways again.

Stiles jogged to catch up after him, the night air cooling his forehead as the electronic doors parted for them.

“Am I hallucinating or is that Scott’s cheer baby over there angrily frenching our quarterback?”

“Scott’s what?!?”

 _Right,_ he hadn’t been there for that, “I’ll fill you in later. Come on.” Making sure Jackson’s was looking at him as he intertwined their fingers, Stiles smirked, then tugged him in the direction of the growing circle of spectators. At the center of it, he found Scott, shielding his burning eyes at the sight of Theo’s wide back forcing Liam into the bus’s wall. And he thought he and Jackson were filthy. From the way their tongues chased after each other, Theo’s leg brushing higher and higher against Liam’s obvious boner, he didn’t think they could entangle tighter if they tried, save for creating a porno right in front of everyone. Stiles could hear the groans and growls from all the way back here.

He kept their fingers connected as he pressed forward, reaching Scott in seconds, “And so the new saga begins….” he shook his head, knowing all too well what reports to yank out of Brett next year. If not Brett, for the sole purpose of the guy owing him after covering for his late ass, then Theo directly. He’d probably have to drive down to threaten him for it, but Stiles was getting his tea.

“You mean he’s not a Senior? He’ll be _back_ next year?!” Was his job now as Scott’s platonic life partner to soothe away his ragged frenzy? Nah. Definitely not.

“Kinda feels like we’re in-laws now.”

“I am going to _rip him apart_ with my bare hands.”

“Woah, take it down bout five notches there, Ted Bundy. It’s all in good fun.”

“Seriously, McCall. Not a big deal,” Jackson grumbled and Stiles squeezed his hand. His two guys breathing the same air and not fighting; maybe, this really could actually work out. Images of the future had him turning to Scott swiftly.

“Hey, you never told me where you landed for college.”  

It took Scott several minutes to break himself away from Theo and Liam and even when he did, his gaze still thundered left every few seconds. “Yeah I did,” he finally breathed calmly enough to throw out, “Cal.”

“...Like Cal State or Berkeley-Cal?”

“The second one.”

“The fuck you did, I’d have remembered that! Us too! Holy crap, we can get an apartment together!”

Twin repulsion brought Scott and Jackson the closest they’d ever been and probably would ever be. “Hard no,” Jackson pushed away from him, mood souring as if they’re future really did smell like rancid milk. At the same time, Scott somberly nodded, “Yeah you two are basically newlyweds. I’d have better chances with freshman housing.”

“Both of you suck. Wait...” he paused, a thought coming over him, “Where’s Allison going?”

“Oh she got a scholarship to Princeton,” Scott waved away, stuffing his hands into his jeans, “But, we’re breaking up after graduation. I actually think she wants to...you know, be with Lydia-”

“How are you so casual about this? You just got together!!” Neither of them miss how Jackson gripped tighter to him after that revelation. Stiles wanted to say he hadn’t shifted back.

“Yeah about that...we’ve been dating on and off since she moved to town.”

“Scotty, that’s like--”

“--since Freshman year,” Stiles’ eyes slanted to a pointed glare, heavy enough to make Scott duck. “I know, I’m so sorry! I didn’t want to hurt your feelings and her dad wouldn’t let her go to camp with me there anyway, so it wasn’t hard to pretend we were just friends for this one weekend. But, I figured this year, you seemed to be with Jackson so...”

“Now I see why she hates my guts.”

Jackson snorted, “You think that’s the only reason?”

He jabbed him to be quiet, “You’ve been having sex for years and I didn’t know it!”

“You’re the one giving blow jobs in Magic Kingdom like it’s no big deal!!” he yelled back at the moment everyone decided to stop talking, all eyes whipping to them instantaneously.

Erica stuck her entire body out the window, blonde hair mopping up the collected dust from the force of how fast she whipped between him and Jackson, “That’s your boy toy!?!”

“Oh my god,” a pained groan fell from him as his teammates’ exclamations manifested in a tidal wave of unwanted commentary. Everything from Lydia proclaiming she already knew, to Aiden gagging, to Brett and Tracy asking if they could watch. “I told you I didn’t write those and it _wasn’t me_ doing the giving _!”_

“Everyone, bus right now!” Morrell, for the first time in Cheer History, chose that outburst to display a bout of authority. Theo started pushing his new spectacle toward the open doors and she stopped him with a vicious glare, “ _Every_ **_Cyclone_** **.** Don’t make me sit you in the front, Mr.Raeken. And you two,” her death point from Jackson to him and back again. “Opposite ends. I’ll be watching you.”

Jackson snatched his heavy duffle bag from his shoulders, taking it with him to the bus. Stiles knew he’d come off a significant amount more cute and considerate if not for the invisible knife he slitted cross Scott’s throat with his glare. He’d honestly never felt such a strong desire to jump him than he did right now.

Scott, at the very least, ducked his head, appearing somewhat remorseful. “Sorry bro, didn’t mean to block you.”

“Nah, no worries. We’ve already learned I’m way too loud for public hanky panky anyway.”

“LALALAALALALA.”

“Now the second we touch Beacon Hill soil...” he groaned comically, much to the displeasure of Scott’s haunted expression. “I doubt you could keep me off of him if you tried.”

Jackson pushed him onto the bus to the sound of Scott begging him to spare him the details. Her teacher face firm and threatening, Morrell forced into a seat with Brett’s sister, Lori who had already decided, by her bitch glare, she deserved a whole row by herself. And Jackson down several rows, was forced  to sit down next to none other than Brett himself.

As the minibus began to roll, Scott waved to him, mouthing with his mini-me by his side, _JK I wanna know all the juicy details later!_

Shaking his head, he saluted back, _I bet you do, nympho._

 _‘Welcome to the club, perv!_ ‘ was the last thing Stiles could make out before the bus turned the corner. He couldn’t help the massive grin splitting his cheeks as he took out his phone. Tapping one name above Scott’s in his recent messages, he struck up another hushed conversation.

**< <tell brett I will. slice. off. his. fingers. **

_He. said. challenge. accepted. Boy. Toy._

Stiles didn’t have to turn around to hear the resulting cackle floating above the raucous camaraderie of their gossiping teammates. 26 ours. He could survive that long right?

* * *

**~~ Free Spirit - The End~~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed Electric! What'd you think about the rest?! Thank you for reading and giving me all your kind words. 
> 
> Also, shameless PSA - a New Stackson Discord exists for all of us to gather and chat more easily. We're a baby group now, so please join us if you want to meet some new Stackson friends! [(Invite Link Here)](https://discord.gg/WwKTvTM)
> 
>  

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! What do you think so far?! I’m sure when you saw Cheerleaders, Faking Dating, Roommates AND Stackson, you were like...okkk, what is happening here. So far, I hope it's been entertaining you as much as it has entertained me writing it. The last portions of Saturday and Sunday are being edited by a First Reader, so I'll post them once they finish saving my grammatical errors. (Definitely before Stackson Week ends!)
> 
> \---
> 
> Also, a Massive thank you to Cailee (jacksonstilinskis) cause without her you’d see twice as many commas and three times as many misspelled words in Thursday and Friday! Her story will be posted some time this week too, so definitely look out for that!! (Spoiler alert: it's amazing!)


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